


To Chase a Hart

by AcquaSole



Series: Tales from the Emblem [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crossdressing, Diplomacy, Drama, Humour, Love Triangles, Multi, Politics, Romance, Twelfth Night AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2411135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcquaSole/pseuds/AcquaSole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faced with a daunting task, Robin must navigate a treacherous maze of political intrigues and cloak-and-dagger schemes to save her kingdom - that is, if her romantic mishaps don't catch up to her first! An FE13 adaptation of Twelfth Night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Will and a Way

**Author's Note:**

> The betas for this first chapter were the amazing kingdomfantasies and varietyshow; I honestly couldn't have done it without them and I'm so glad they decided to give this story a chance! You can read their fics on ffnet and AO3, respectively.

 

 

 

 

Robin woke to the sensation of cold salty water rushing in to fill her mouth and nose. Choking and spluttering, she lifted herself from her previously prone position in a panic, the seawater stinging her eyes and dripping down her chin.

"Daraen!"

Staggering to her feet, she hissed when her bruised knees and aching sides protested at her abrupt movements. Robin's head whipped wildly to the side, the wet hood of her coat hindering her sight greatly. She ripped it off angrily and rubbed at her irritated eyes, but was startled to see her fingers were bloody and covered in small red cuts.

"Daraen!"

Spitting out the water that sluiced down her face and into her mouth, her dark brown eyes scanned the rocky grey beach for anything,  _anything_  that would've indicated the presence of human life. Debris littered the rocks; chunks of gaily-painted wood, a long strip of torn canvas hanging limply over a stand of boulders, and  _oh Gods there were two bodies lying next to her._

Resisting the urge to retch, she breathed in heavily through her nose and counted to ten slowly. It was a simple exercise that helped to ease her in stressful situations.

 _Focus Robin. Focus. Check them to see if they're truly gone. If not, see what you can do to get them to respond._ She expelled a trembling breath through chilled, clammy lips.  _Focus…_

She knelt down gingerly on the board the motionless sailors rested upon, its damaged wooden surface creaking at the increase in weight. Turning the man closest to her on his back, she noted sadly that their crash-landing on the beach had dealt him a serious blow. His nose had been crushed into his face and his teeth broken, and a rusty frothy mess was all that remained of his jawline. Though she knew that the man no longer drew breath, she still pressed her rapidly numbing fingers into his neck to check for a pulse. Once finished with her macabre examination, she moved to his companion. Though his face was not as in a terrible condition as the first seaman's, Robin still registered a certain degree of harm; his iris was scratched and bleeding into the surrounding sclera and a jagged piece of lumber protruded from his sunken sternum. She had no idea if they had drowned or if the rough entry to shore was responsible for their deaths, but she prayed it wasn't the latter.

Brushing her hand over her chest, she noticed that a thick length of rope was tied snugly around her hips…as well as the men's. With a start, she allowed the memory to flow back into her mind, grimacing at the mild migraine that soon followed after.

 _The captain…he told us to tie ourselves to each other so we wouldn't lose one another._ Another grimace.  _It might not have been the best idea, but –_

Speaking of the captain, Robin had no clue if there were others stranded on the coast with her and her downed comrades. Worse still was that she did not know of Daraens' whereabouts and welfare. Was he injured? Did he leave to call for help? Dread gripped her heart as the questions kept piling up in the back of her mind and she realised the terrifying extent of her ignorance. Her kneecaps popped painfully as she stood to take another look around.

The beach itself was an unfamiliar, dreary territory. Instead of the warm sandy shores she knew and loved back home, cold and unforgiving rocks stretched out as far as her eyes could see. Ragged cliffs rose up ominously behind her with a smattering of great black boulders and hidden tide pools nestled at their base. A freezing tide the colour of charcoal churned sharply at her feet, and the watery grey light of early dawn added to the overall gloomy scene.

Robin decided against staying in her current position. If the rest of the crew – and Daraen – were close by, she'd do good to seek them out. At the very least, she would be able to scout around for possible supplies, a place to seek shelter should the weather worsen, and – though she loathed considering the possibility – any more bodies that would need to be towed away from the powerful currents.

Her hands and face were thoroughly numbed by the bitter gusts that blew against her. Her large coat being soaked down to its inner threads didn't do her any favours either, weighing her down terribly and proving to be a most cumbersome garment. Robin huffed weakly on her rapidly blueing palms and kept walking.

 _Better a wet robe than nothing at all_ , she thought miserably.

Trudging forward through the desolate landscape proved to be a wretched experience. No sound but the incessant beating of waves accompanied her, not even the cries of seabirds, and constant worries of maimed sailors and the missing Daraen left a sour taste in her mouth and a bad ache in her breast.

Lost in her thoughts, she had tripped several times on the treacherous rocks. One particularly well-hidden pebble had sent her sprawling face first into the ground, and it would have been really funny had she not been so absorbed in her distress and had pain not burst against her cheekbone.

_Crying won't make you feel any better, pathetic girl._

She wiped her throbbing cheek and moved on.

It seemed that an eternity had passed before she thought she could make out the sound of…a human voice?

A desperate hope bloomed within her. Whirling around to find the source of the unexpected,  _wonderful_ , noise, her elation grew when she realised it was someone calling her name.

"I'm here! I'm here! Oh Gods, I'm so glad to see you're all right –"

It died just as quickly when Robin saw the man's craggy face and massive build lumbering towards where she stood. Her smile disappeared under a cloud of disappointment.

_It's not him._

_It's not him…_

"Very pleased to see the Lady Robin is safe!" came the booming laugh. His boots pounded hard against the surf and she noticed with a dull pang that he too had some rope fitted around his sides.

"Thought perhaps lost you may have been! Beach is no good place to lose things," he panted as he clumsily slid to a stop right in front of her. His large grin faded when he noticed her crestfallen expression and his bushy brows knitted together in concern.

"Alright everything is…?"

Robin looked up right into his eyes and fought to keep her words from quavering.

"Where is my brother?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

The trek back to the bonfire the remnants of the crew had set up was spent in silence. Gregor usually wasn't one for being very chatty, or starting conversations for that matter, but he felt that the girl walking next to him would have perhaps needed a shoulder to lean on, someone to relay all her troubles to and be reassured.

She had rebuffed all his attempts without a single word, pulled her hood low over her face, and left it at that.

The terrain had smoothed out into gravel once they reached the improvised camp, the sun having started its slow climb some time before. Pale pinks, reds and oranges streaked the sky in an exquisite panoply of light, but they were too tired and worried to enjoy the sight. There was something odd about the place that kept nagging at him for some reason or another, but he couldn't quite place his finger on it.

Setting down the corpses each had lugged all the way to the roaring fire, Gregor turned his attentions to Robin, scrutinising the way her hidden visage affixed itself to the sad, broken heap that used to be their ship. Frowning, he placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Checked already. Brother is nowhere near."

Most of the morning was spent scavenging among the gutted carcass of their vessel. What was once an elegant cutter emblazoned in yellow and blue and sporting pristine white sails was now a skeletal pile of mangled wood and clumps of stringy seaweed. While Gregor knew that storms were an occupational hazard in his line of work, he couldn't help but grieve over the loss of his ship. Not only had he captained it for the past 15 years, he'd personally repaired it countless times over the years, taken it all over the world on long journeys … hell, he'd even gotten married on it.

Still, his attachment didn't cloud his judgement. It was clear as day that it was beyond salvageable. Most of the bilge had been torn off, and the mast was gone altogether. A loose plank had fallen from the ship's side and nearly gored Robin, but he'd managed to pull her towards him in the nick of time, and he kept close to her after that.

Even though it was clear she didn't want him to.

They recovered little from the wreck. They were grateful to have found coils of twine, a barrel of fresh water, and a few tattered blankets, which were distributed quickly amongst the five people around the fire.

The captain's quarters were spared somewhat from the damage, a discovery that prompted Gregor to mutter a quick thanks to Naga under his breath. They managed to save his ledgers and documents, a small coffer full of gold coins, his maps and navigational instruments, even his rather immodest set of knives and swords.

Robin wasn't as lucky as he. The few tomes and books they did rescue had been thoroughly soaked and were placed next to the dying fire to dry out. Other than that, a bronze sword and the clothes on her back, she had nothing.

Not even her brother.

By the time they were done the sun had reached its peak and blazed gloriously from its high perch. No one welcomed it though. A foul, tense mood had settled over the camp, their skins itchy from the sand and gravel that had wormed its way into their hair and clothes, their bodies injured and sore, and of low morale over the devastation the storm had caused.

Judging by the way Robin was kneading her thighs roughly, Gregor was more than sure that her migraine hadn't gone away either.

"Please don't worry, Lady Robin…"

Everyone turned to see the skinny sailor who'd spoken up, and he'd cringed at the attention now focused on him. The man who was busy repurposing one of the blankets into a sling for his fractured arm muttered quiet reassurances and tightened the cloth around his neck. The boy cleared his throat in a slight surge of confidence and continued.

"Right after we tied ourselves together…the storm got real bad. The boat sorta rolled on its side a little and the mast just done got snapped in half. You passed out at some point or another, and yer brother – I mean, Lord Daraen – lost his footing and started slidin' down th' bulwarks…you'da gone down with him had he not cut ya loose."

An uneasy hush fell over the group, interrupted sporadically by the tide loudly washing over pebbles. An anxious Gregor had noticed that Robin's breathing had slowed considerably and her fingers had gone eerily still.

Though she'd made it more that clear that she had no desire to initiate contact with any of the men (or let herself be coddled by them, for that matter), it still tugged on his heartstrings to see her wallowing in her quiet despair. Gregor wrapped a meaty arm around her slumped shoulders, his paternal side secretly satisfied by the fact that, while she tensed up, she didn't push him away either. He nodded encouragingly to the freckle-faced seaman.

"Go on."

The boy licked his cracked lips nervously. "Uhhm…I'm still a little fuzzy on the details but…I remember the captain here was busy pullin' ya to safety, and Jean here," the man who was fixing his bandages grunted in acknowledgement, "saved me from a falling crate. Would'a lost half my face if it weren't for him," he said fondly.

"Get to point, Marco. You saw what happen to Daraen or no?"

"Ah-ah, well, he drifted off a little too far for me t'see properly, but I think that he tied himself to th'mast once he hit the water."

"Perhaps he would not have even reached the water had someone bothered to, oh, I don't know, help him?" came the sour mutter from under the hood.

"Is enough for now," Gregor said hastily as he raised himself from the pile of driftwood that served as their bench. He squinted at Robin through the harsh glare of the burning sun, troubled over her spiteful tone. "Thank you for telling, Marco."

"Yes, thank you for telling us now, after all the effort expended to find a man who was never here in the first place," her voice was muffled but loud enough to perceive the venomous glaze that coated every word.

"Leave him alone!" Jean's indignant rasp cut clearly through the cacophony of a passing flock of gulls. "He's had a rough day and he's got a broken arm to deal with. He doesn't need some overbearing noblewoman breathing down his neck too."

Robin rose calmly from her seat and, hobbling ahead as best as she could on her wounded knees, planted herself firmly in front of Jean's face. Even with her expression veiled from sight, fury radiated off her very being so obviously that Jean took a step back to avoid being so close to her.

" 'Overbearing,' you say?" her intonation was dangerously soft and Gregor flinched, cursing Jean for just having to have the last word at all times. Though it was a bit heavy handed of Robin to direct her ire towards poor, skittish Marco, it was foolhardy of Jean to expect that it was fair to speak so harshly to a woman who was a lot more physically and emotionally hurt at the moment than she let on.

Even more foolish was for him to think that she would let him get away with it.

"I've had to deal with constant bellyaching from  _all_ of you," she swept her arm in a wide arc, "after we were blown off course in the  _first_  storm and you all moaned about the delays and the rationings. That could have been avoided had anyone bothered to listen to the suggestion of my  _dearest brother_  and I," there was a collective cringe, "to just head straight across the South Seas and leave us at Melilla. We could have taken the ferry back to the mainland from there, but the  _general consensus_ ," she spat the word out, "was to skip ahead to Plegia since it would be so much more 'convenient.' "

She placed her palm flat on her chest. " 'No worry, Lady Robin,' " she spoke in a cruel, pompous facsimile of Gregor's broken accent. " 'Is too late in season to see storms any more. Get you back home in no time at all!' " Robin growled and started pacing around the beach madly, the volume of her ravings increasing with each step.

"I don't know what was worse, between taking care of incompetent, drunken fools of a crew who preferred to eat and drink through our supplies," everyone turned to stare at Gregor, "rather than do their bloody damn jobs and navigate, or Daraen and myself having to do those bloody damn jobs for you.

"Not only that, but the money we had on board to pay you all is gone, as are several important objects such as very high level tomes that cannot be replaced – "

 _Unlike you helpless buffoons_ , she nearly blurted out. The slip went unnoticed and she continued.

"The ship is beyond saving, my brother is gone, possibly even dead, and he has to be in Ylisse  _now,_ and the best you can manage to call me is ' _overbearing_?' " She thundered in the terrified Jean's face.

Gregor punched his open palm with a giant fist in sudden realisation.

"Ah! Now Gregor knowing what is familiar about place!" He said with his characteristic cheerfulness.

"Already we are in Ylisse! In fact, Gregor born not three hours from here, and capital is only a few days' ride away! What luck!" he chuckled with glee.

Judging from the horror-struck expressions his comrades sent his way, and how Robin tore off her hood to shoot him the most murderously demoniacal glare he'd ever seen, it probably wasn't the best thing to have said at the time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They had wrapped the bodies in the canvas they scrounged from the wreck and placed them on a makeshift pallet that they took turns to drag along the road. While it would have been preferable to simply cremate them or push them out to sea, their families would definitely not have appreciated that. Though it would mean going to extra lengths to preserve their corpses for the long journey home, they were honourable people and intended to keep their word to their wives and children.

They did, however, put torch to their vessel. Gregor wept openly and loudly as he'd watched his faithful companion of 15 years crumble into the wet gravel and wash out into the current, beautiful paintwork and sturdy foundations reduced to nothing but charred beams and smouldering ash.

Southtown was about an hour away from the beach on foot. A dingy, washed out inland port, its close proximity to Plegia had led to several attacks from the Plegian navy across the sound, determined to cut off Ylisse's access to the ocean, as well as from several roaming hordes of bandits that took advantage of the confusion surrounding the wartime years.

Consequently, the townsfolk were inhospitable and distrustful of strangers, and were positively apoplectic with rage once they spotted the distinctive eye shaped markings that ran down the length of Robin's baggy sleeves; the markings that revealed her to be part of the dark cult that held sway over Plegia, the much feared and reviled Grimleal. She was grateful her hood kept her face hidden.

Not that she could blame them much for it. Even with the kind of aid it was receiving, Southtown was in poor shape and struggling to make ends meet; the shops in the commercial district that once bustled with activity were now shuttered and dark, the quaint town square pockmarked from mortar blasts, and the residents scrubbing hard at the sooty doors of their once beautiful church.

That's why, with narrowed eyes and much grumbling, they didn't protest when Gregor produced the documents saved from the ship that allowed them free passage through the country as part of the Plegian mission in Ylisse…as well as a generous heap of the gold he had on himself, coupled with an easy going grin and a soft  _please show us to the nearest inn_.

She was surprised at how fluently he spoke in the local language. Then again, he did say he was born not too far away from here.

Lost in her thoughts as she gazed out the cracked window out at the river that snaked under the stone bridges outside, she jumped in surprise when the door groaned vociferously. Gregor stepped in with an apologetic smile and small parcels wrapped in crinkly brown parchment cradled in his hands.

"You could've just spoken to me in your native tongue you know. I'm fluent, and it would have saved you a lot of trouble," Robin said.

"Nay, is not much of problem," he replied kindly. "Is needing to practice Plegian languages, as captains must know a lot of them anyways.

"Anywho, off to bath you are. Wounds need tending to very urgently and in need of relaxation you are," Gregor said as he strode over to Robin and scooped her up in his bearish arms along with the packages. He then proceeded to the bathroom door and unlatched it with a flourish.

Robin squirmed in discomfort at his sudden boldness. "Put me down  _now_  Gregor."

He answered with a chuckle. "And risk Lady Robin falling to floor? No no. I have seen you in much pain today and more of standing around will not be good. Lady Robin should let herself be treated."

Though she hated to acknowledge it, he was right. Walking for an hour on her bruised knees had left her painfully exhausted and her ribs positively ached with each breath she took. Not counting the blow she suffered to her face, without a mirror she was unsure of the extent of the damage she'd received on the beach.

"It's not decent…" she trailed off lamely.

The chuckle turned into a short bark of laughter. "Fret not! I am not lustful man with bad thoughts. Am happily married man with daughter your age!"

Pushing open the door with his hips, he padded in to the surprisingly well-furnished room and set Robin down gently next to the old claw-toed bathtub. While he busied himself with lighting the little oil lamp sitting on the mouldy table, Robin faced the grimy, full-length mirror with a quiet gasp.

The deep cut on her cheek had dried into a crusty brown scab that sat just below her eye like an accidental glob of paint on a canvas. Below it, her jaw had purpled and swelled impressively with a multitude of ugly bruises. There was a long gash across the bridge of her nose.

Panic spreading across her veins with each second, she weakly shucked off her bulky robe and saw that her arms were also painted by an expanse of reds, blues and violets. While her gloves couldn't conceal the cuts on her fingers, she was shocked to gaze upon raw skinned patches of flesh on the backs of her hands.

"Aha!" came the delighted whoop from Gregor as his fiddling with the taps successfully drew water into the chipped basin. "Not hot, but is something at least!" His jolly demeanour vanished when he took note of Robin's trembling body.

His eyes softened. "Help needed with the rest of the clothing?" he asked quietly.

"Please turn around," was her simple request. Complying, he preoccupied himself with the tub once more as she tried to remove her inner jacket and top, but found that her joints suddenly seized up and refused to obey her. When she bent down to try and give her boots a go, the same occurred with her lower back, and she straightened herself with a wince.

"I need some help, actually," Robin's whisper was tinged with shame. She dared not look as Gregor paced over to her and tugged off her clothes gently, and her ears burned when she heard his upset murmuring.

"Poor you. Is in very bad shape," he said in a hushed tone. He did quick work of her trousers and belts, and by the time he slid her boots off her feet Robin thought she would die of embarrassment.

He hissed at the sight of her crushed and bloodied toes. Hooking his biceps under her thighs, Gregor lowered her smoothly into the rust flecked water and pulled a stool under him. He reached for one of the packages lying on the table and loosened the cord wrapping it closed to reveal a bar of lye soap and the familiar blue sheen of several bottled Elixirs.

"Lucky you have not seen your back," he tried to joke as he emptied out the contents of one of the vials into the tub. The water fizzed and bubbled fiercely as the magic tonic started working to repair the broken skin and sore bones, and Robin exhaled faintly as a wonderful heat seeped into her overtaxed limbs. The small bar of lye was quickly dissolved into sudsy bubbles as Gregor washed her gritty, blood – crusted hair.

Pouring more of the insipid liquid into a washcloth and scrubbing carefully at her back, he was taken aback when he heard muted sniffles coming from Robin. Perturbed, he shifted on his perch to get a better look at her face. "Something is hurting you?" his query was placid and tender and had such a paternal quality to it that Robin couldn't help but try to stifle another sob.

"Why – why are you doing all of this for me? You spent all that money on that expensive m – medicine and this room and you're washing me and…why? I haven't been very n – nice, " she seemed to struggle with the word, "to you or the men for the weeks we've been together and yet you never seemed to take offense with me … why?" she hiccupped.

"My Lady," came his plaintive words, "is true you have not been so kind to Gregor or crew, but," a sigh passed his lips, "crew has not been of best service to you – or your Lord brother. With the drinking and the not listening to the Lady and whatnot. Gregor has not helped the Lady Robin with important mission, and Gregor must apologise. Making of upping is utmost priority now."

Robin furrowed her brow fretfully. "What about the rest of the crew? I … I have not apologised to them over today."

Another kindly smile was flashed at her. "Worry not. Understand they have. Before left for homes today, offered their forgiveness and apologies they have, and wish the Lady the best of luck with task ahead."

"B—but I haven't even paid them yet! Or you for that matter!"

He waved his sausage like fingers dismissively. "Care was taken of it, as were gold for embalmer. Though stale bread is now only dinner tonight!" Some joviality infused his voice as he spoke, but a little seriousness returned to his face when Robin's lip began to quiver furiously. With a painfully clenching heart, Gregor wrapped his arms around her naked shoulders and gently pushed her head into the cradle of his neck.

"You have suffered most grievous loss today, after all you have been through." he soothed as he stroked her soapy wet hair.

"Know that Gregor, crew, and all of Plegia are supporting you always, Princess."

 

 

* * *

 

 

After she had a good cry and finished up with her bath, Robin sat swaddled in a multitude of threadbare towels and Gregor's shirt – he'd insisted since she had nothing to wear while he washed her clothes, reasoning that though they managed to book a room at the inn for a steep price, the innkeepers would never have accepted to launder Grimleal clothing – with the papers rescued from the ship spread out across the rickety bed. She frowned at them as though they'd offended her in some manner and she muttered curses into her now healed fists.

"Gregor is hearing sighings all the way from here!" came the loud bellow from the bathroom. His spiky auburn hair peeked out from the doorframe as he sidled close to check up on her.

"More of the bad news there is?"

A deep sigh made its way up her throat. "I'm afraid so Gregor. What happened today just complicated everything else so much more, and I'm not sure how to fix it."

That certainly sounded ominous. Traipsing out of the bathroom with a handful of her sodden garments, he draped them carefully over the frame of the open window and hoped the warm night air would at least dry them a bit. He faced her with his arms akimbo and waited patiently for her explanation.

She sighed again and twiddled her thumbs anxiously. "You know Daraen was supposed to represent Plegia in the peace talks while in Ylisstol…"

"…And brother is now gone." Gregor finished for her as a most peculiar sensation of apprehension began to fill him from the toes up. He tried to dispel it with a chortle of laughter and a shrug of the shoulders.

"Why should Plegia worry when Robin is here to solve little issue, no? Just take place at meetings and all worries are over!"

"I can't do that Gregor." she was surprised at how cool and rational she sounded when her gorge rose against her throat in unabashed fear. " The diplomats from Regna Ferox and Ylisse wrote to us not too long before we set sail from Chon'sin…they said that while they appreciated our…  _gesture_ , they made it very clear that we still had a ways to go before we could gain their trust completely."

She drew her fingers through her long white hair (thanks to Gregor, it was no longer riddled with sand and blood) and shuddered. Her lips felt too dry and she forced herself to continue.

"They said that they'd allow Plegia's presence at the table to negotiate, but they had  _specific_  conditions, unfortunately. One of those being that my brother was to be Plegia's representative at the talks. Anyone else,  _anyone_ , and we would be turned away from the boardroom at once, marched out of Ylisse, and any future trade and interaction shut down. It doesn't help that women are barred from officially participating in politics here," she added in a savage growl.

His apprehension morphing into a hazy sense of dread, Gregor's shock manifested itself quite plainly when he took in that information. "The nerve of diplomats Robin! No honour at all! Why – why so harsh to Plegian mission when very clear you are for cooperation? Why is necessary for Daraen when you are here?"

"Well, he is the heir to the throne, after all, " she hated how she couldn't hide her bitterness from her tone, "and they mentioned how much they would value our sense of  _goodwill_  should we entrust our prince to their care." Robin crumpled up one of the notes and lobbed it at the wall in a fit of rage.

Gregor spouted a litany of obscenities under his breath and pulled his hands through his hair before storming back to the bathroom. Robin was left staring after him and her body sagged in exhaustion and resignation.

"Though I can't really blame them for not trusting us…after all Plegia did."

As an uncomfortable silence enveloped the room, Robin tried to parse through the buzz of thoughts crowding out the space in her head. Such terrible things had happened in such a short span of time, and not only was it difficult to process it all at once, it was sheer terror to visualise the kind of impact it would have on the gathering, on Plegia, on everything she and Daraen had wept and bled for to make it to this point…only for their efforts to vanish like mist in the air.

She wanted to curse and spit at the Gods for daring to mock them so.

She breathed and counted to ten.

_You were never one for giving up and you never will be, Robin, so don't you dare think about quitting now. You've been through situations that were just as bad, and you've prepared for worse. Don't let everything that you've learned go to waste._

Robin's mouth stretched into a grimace at the last thought.

_Think. Organise the facts. Consider what obstructs your path and the best way around it._

She drummed her fingers on her knee thoughtfully as her mind relaxed into a familiar pattern of sorting and analysing. She could handle things like this.

_One of the stated requirements was to arrive on time in Ylisstol; given the amount of time needed to return to the beach, gather anyone who is even remotely willing to be part of a search party headed by a Plegian, and the size of Ylisse's southern coastline, delaying the time of arrival to try to find someone who might be dead by now would be pointless._

Robin abhorred the mere thought of Daraen resting cold and alone at the bottom of the sea, his young life cut terribly short. However, it was a possibility that, no matter how hateful to consider, was one that could not be ignored in light of their current situation.

The half – formed plan was discarded reluctantly.

_If we cannot take time to search…then perhaps a substitute? But we don't have anyone at hand who not only knows enough of Plegian affairs and war negotiation, but also enough of Daraen's views in order to–_

Her line of thought ended there. What was she doing, deliberating over someone to take her brother's place just like that? Why was she mulling over such a thing when she had already even told Gregor that a replacement wasn't a viable option? Gods, it seemed as though grief muddled her thinking more than she thought possible; one of the few areas she felt comfortable in was now proving to be yet another obstacle. She truly was rather stupid if all her years of education and training could be undone in only a few hectic hours, if she was as foolish to let emotions cloud her judgement and trick her into seriously pondering over an impossibility –

_Or is it one?_

"Gregor!" she called. From the way he arrived so quickly to her bedside, it was as if he had practically flown there.

"What is milady needing? A solution has been found?"

"Gods, yes Gregor, and I can't believe it took me this long to realise it, not when the answer was sitting under our noses this whole time!"

"Truly?" Gregor's customary grin was back on his face, and he practically quivered with excitement as he gripped her pale shoulders and shook her slightly. "Pray, tell Gregor of this!"

Tentatively, Robin placed her own hands, so slim and small in comparison, over his prominent knuckles as she looked him dead in the eye. She steeled herself for a brief moment before soberly announcing,

"I will take his place at the talks."

Dead silence seemed to seep into the room through the many cracks in the ageing floorboards. He was frozen in place and had not removed his fingers from her skin, and his lips fumbled around to articulate a proper response to this shocking development. Instead, a deep, worried scowl worked its way onto his normally jovial face.

"Gregor does not understand this well," he pronounced cautiously. "Did not say that replacement was impossible?"

"But don't you see? It all makes sense!" She pushed him off her and sprang off the mattress to pace wildly around the perimeter of the room; he could almost picture Robin as a great cat stalking about in some far off jungle, impatient and hungry for the kill.

"Not only am I the one who knows him best, I know everything there needs to be known about the meetings and Plegia and the war. I know how negotiations are to be handled. I know what is to be said in a debate and everything necessary about potential enemies and allies. Gregor, I know how Daraen thinks and talks, how can I not be the one to stand in for him? How can I not be the one to best represent his point of view and Plegia's interests?"

"Is insanity," he cried, his expression taking on a desperate look as he grasped her by the shoulders again, rougher now this time, and spun her around to face him: her wide, hopeful, glassy eyes meeting his own terrified ones.

"I can pull this off Gregor –" came her angry retort, before he cut her off mid sentence.

"Not in politics women are, milady, not here! Substitute is not possible!" Gregor shook Robin as though he was hoping to rattle some sense into her, as though he could convey the depth of his fear for her with a show of strength.

"Said it yourself besides. Only brother was asked for." Her face darkened at this, and he recognised that what he thought would be persuasive phrasing only served to remind Robin of their current predicament...and how it seemed as though she would forever play a supporting role to Daraen.

As he was mentally berating himself for his unintentionally harsh choice of words, her hands curled under the collar of his shirt and pulled him closer so that they now stood nose to nose – or rather, nose to chest. Vaguely, he remembered the strength housed in her deceptively small frame and noticed the prominent musculature of her arms.

"Daraen and I are almost physically identical in every single way," she murmured, her deep brown eyes meeting his gaze evenly. "I can do this."

"More there is to being man than simply looks."

"None will be the wiser."

Gregor gave Robin a pained look. Slowly, carefully, he brought his arms to encircle her torso, the awkward embrace pushing her head into his rough, dirty tunic. She dropped her fingers from his neck in surprise yet remained silent as he tried to reason with her. He could not keep his voice from trembling.

"If caught you are – if found out – what will happen to you? Not so kind are these men that all will be forgiven."

"It's a risk I'm willing to take." Though her voice was muffled by his chest, she spoke clearly.

" _They will kill you,_ " he pleaded, and for a split second Robin wondered if he sounded as though he were on the verge of tears. His concern was touching, but did little to sway her. Not when there was so much at stake.

"I'm not so foolish as to not know how to properly disguise myself. I will do everything in my power to avoid detection and I  _will_  get out of this alive. If not then at least I'll die happy knowing that what I did was for the sake of peace."

"But milady–"

A firm "No buts Gregor" startled him. The ferocity of her tone and the solidity of her stance were nothing new when it came to her, and yet he was still in awe and more than a little frightened of her drive and tenacity.

"I must go through with this. Any other alternative would mean disgracing all the work we have done to get to this point, and I will not let that pass. You  _must_ help me in this...if not for Daraen's sake, then at least for Plegia's."

_And mine too._

Gregor studied her with a heavy heart. For someone as young as Robin, she already carried herself like a battle hardened soldier...which she was, albeit a soldier crafted from the battered remains of a little girl forced to grow up too soon. A child forced to bear the burdens of nations and their bloody legacies.

Her country needed her, and while he was fretting over imagined scenarios of terrible consequences –  _that are very much possible_ , a horrible voice whispered in his ear – she answered the call as though she were a fully armoured knight, and not a girl stranded in a foreign country with naught but the clothes on her back and a sea captain to guide her to her destination.

She would have made a fine queen. And it was with this understanding that prompted him to kneel reverently, if a little sadly, at her feet.

"Understand, surely, why Gregor is reluctant," he said morosely. Their callused palms slid against each other as he peered up into that too solemn face, shadowed by her snowy locks. He smiled ruefully.

"And yet, all Gregor can hope is that milady try to take care, eat well and write back to not worry frail old man," he tried to joke, and felt warmth suffuse him all the way to the roots of his spiky auburn hair when, for the first time since they had met, she gave him a timid grin in reply.

"Now," he grunted as he raised himself to his full height, "how we are going to get about with grand plan to save the kingdom?"

Her eyes gleamed, resolute, as she reached for the dagger he had strapped to his waist.

"A bit of a trim would be a good start."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The heat had been stifling that day and showed no signs of subsiding as the minutes crawled by on their agonisingly slow tortoise feet. Chrom usually considered himself a (somewhat) patient man, but he had to admit that waiting under such conditions was making him irritable and snappish.

"Chrooooom! Please let's just go inside already! I'm dying of thirst here!"

Lissa's constant whining didn't help much either.

Heaving what seemed to be his hundredth exasperated sigh that day, he turned his eyes skyward and hoped to distract himself observing a hawk's progress across the dazzling swathe of bright blue. Had it been any other day, and the weather more agreeable, he'd had called it a lovely sight.

It was a shame too, considering that it was in fact incredibly beautiful out. A soft breeze that was sorely missed in their spot at the top of the stairs ruffled the plentiful white bracts of the recently flowering dogwoods planted around the bailey; puffy clouds billowed lazily against their heavenly backdrop to the tune of keening birds while the sun shone marvellously above them.

"Chrooooooooom! You're not ignoring me again, are you?!" An infantile stamp of the foot punctuated her cry.

Yes, enjoyment was a rather short – lived thing, it seemed.

Sparing her only the slightest of glances, Chrom tried his hardest to sound even – tempered and unruffled, ever the serene picture of royalty he so aspired to. "Just a little longer Lissa. I'm sure they have a perfectly reasonable explanation for being tardy."

" 'Just a little longer?' Chrom, we've been out here for  _six hours_. I don't want to wait 'just a little longer!' It's too hot out and I'm tired of standing here and I'm thirsty and I'm  _bored_." She stomped her foot again and pouted for added effect, peeved that he was refusing to listen to her complaints.

Chrom felt his tolerant façade slipping away and he turned to face Lissa with an annoyed scowl. "It's my  _duty_ ," he emphasised with a growl, "to make sure all representatives and their accompanying retinues reach the castle safely. If you're so fed up with waiting you can go back in by yourself. I'm staying."

She scoffed at his flippancy and determined to hit back harder. "If you stay out here any longer you'll get heatstroke and then die and then you won't be of use to anyone! Just accept that maybe, just maybe, they won't come. Why can't you just listen to me for once?"

"I'm staying here Lissa, and nothing you can do or say will change that."

"Ugh! You're just being stubborn!"

"And you're being childish!" he snapped back.

"Milord," a deep voice interjected suddenly. "If I may be so bold as to speak?"

Chrom often wondered how Frederick managed to keep his cool in the most uncomfortable of situations, both physically and mentally. He was envious and genuinely puzzled as to how he had not even managed to break the slightest of sweat in his tight leather breeches and heavy armour in the scorching heat – and quite ashamed at having him intervene in their decidedly petty squabble as though he was a parent disciplining wayward children.

Clearing his throat nonchalantly and trying to recover some semblance of calm, he motioned to the Great Knight in assent.

"That you may, Frederick."

"Milord has been standing here for six hours straight in the full sun, and while your tenacity and dedication to the task at hand is commendable, it stands to reason that it is an exercise in futility and a hazard to your health. I strongly suggest retiring to the medical ward for swift refreshment before commencing the opening ceremony – with the parties who are  _actually_  present."

He had a point, one that Chrom hated to concede. They had originally allotted their visitors the span of a month to allow for an orderly arrival to Ylisstol, considering the urgency of their mission and the fact that the greater part of the continent's roads were destroyed. Most of the invited diplomats had come on schedule – the Feroxi boisterously laughing and clanging their armour the whole way, the Rossanois moaning over their dainty carriages getting stuck in the numerous potholes along the Northroad, the Valmese scaring half of Ylisse with their stoic faces and mechanical marching…

A glaring absence was noticed soon enough though. Namely, that of the representative from Plegia. Most had already assumed they wouldn't count on an appearance of his when Ylisse had announced its intention to host the proceedings, and they called Chrom a fool for mailing a summons to the surviving heirs to Plegia's throne. A reply addressed to him had proved otherwise and shocked everyone, more so in light of the events that led to the war's end.

Hope had burned fiercely in him after that. Hope that, perhaps with the presence of the world's greatest nations gathered together at the same table, they would be able to put their differences aside and work together to heal the scars of conflict.

The whispers had cropped up again after most of their visitors had been packed into the castle…with no sign of Plegian livery mingling amongst them.

_How typical of them. Sending a message and getting everyone's hopes up, only to snatch it away._

_Why would a Plegian care for peace anyways?_

_I honestly don't understand what Chrom sees in their false promises. He would do us a kindness and keep us safe by just kicking them out._

Chrom had steadfastly ignored their sniping and spite and chose to stand by his decision to welcome them with open arms, even if his people would hate him for it. He refused to believe that he was dealing with a so – called monster.

Even if he saw that sentiment reflected back at him in Frederick's very own eyes.

Lissa sensed his quiet discomfort and, forgetting the barbs they had traded only a few minutes ago, placed a small hand sadly yet reassuringly in the crook of his arm.

"Chrom…" she began tentatively, "it's the second day of the last week already. You're a good person for putting so much faith in them, but sometimes it's just better to…let go of it, you know?"

Frederick moved as if to return to the welcoming coolness of the hall behind the solid oak door, and motioned to Chrom. "It's best we listen to her, milord. I will go on ahead and inform the ladies to prepare a seat for you in the infirmary before this dreadful sun can harm you any further."

It seemed that the Gods were determined to make him swallow his words, however.

A loud clanging and shouting was heard just beyond the gatehouse and the guards stationed at the walls immediately went for their weapons. Lissa squinted at the great stone bridge that stretched out from the castle's entrance, the image hazy and bright in the torrid heat.

"What in the–?"

A pair of sweat lathered horses burst through the line the men had formed at the entrance, sending more than a few flying backwards with pained yelps. The people astride the saddles, a burly mountain of a man and a figure hidden beneath a dark hood, flailed about in a tizzy.

"I'm sorry! Oh Gods! I'm so sorry!"

They stumbled out of their stirrups and accidentally knocked down some more knights who tried to grab at the loose reins of the frantically pacing animals, ducking under reaching arms that failed to restrain them as they zoomed towards the high marble stairs where Chrom, Lissa and Frederick stood watching.

While Lissa was doubled over and making no attempt to disguise her loud cackling, Frederick's lips had thinned out into an expression of deep disgust over the ruckus the guards made as they fell over themselves attempting to stop the strange newcomers racing up the steps; he lightly fingered the heavy silver lance at his side. Chrom, on the other hand, was facing an astonishing whirl of emotion.

A very miniscule part of him was furious – furious at them for daring to be so late, for making him worry so much, for placing his reputation and the progress of the talks at stake – but it was quickly quashed by a mix of relief over their arrival, curiosity over what kind of face lay under the large hood, and utter elation that they were  _finally here after all this time and were going to prove everyone wrong._

Yes, they were finally there. Bent at the waist, panting hard and surrounded by spears pointed right at their faces, Chrom felt excitement bubble up fervently within him even as his long awaited guests struggled to speak after their rather impressive entrance.

"So…sorry…lateness…this oaf," a rough voice wheezed from under the hood, "decided it'd be…good idea to…sleep in…" the aforementioned oaf standing next to the mysterious person tried to laugh in reply but his pockmarked face split into a dry cough instead.

"No…" Chrom replied softly, and his heart soared as he watched the dark cloth be pulled back to reveal choppy white hair, pale skin slick with sweat, and a pair of dark brown eyes that shone with the most sincerest of apologies; even had he tried, Chrom still couldn't help the enormous smile that broke out over his teeth and crinkled the corners of his own eyes as he extended a hand forward in welcome.

"It's quite alright. And thank you for deciding to come...?"

The young man he had addressed looked confused for a second before he realised he was being prompted. Once again, Chrom's chest felt a happy squeeze when his question yielded a small, shy smile and a gloved hand stretching out to meet his own in a tentative and warm shake.

"My name is Daraen, your Highness."


	2. Par for the course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a year since I first submitted this (and my other fic!), so I'm very glad to have this somewhat back on track. I'm barely starting my fourth trimester of uni - the filter period is still not done, and what's worse is that this is the "trimester from hell", so again, I apologise for inconsistency in updating. However, I won't take over a year to add new chapter though!
> 
> That being said, I received lovely reviews and feedback in the last chapter - thank you to everyone who read and reviewed! I'm happy that this is garnering some interest, and I'm very glad for all the advice and kind words. I'll keep them in mind as I continue to write and improve, so that I'm able to learn from more seasoned writers and also remember that I've brought enjoyment to some readers.
> 
> Many thanks to drunkdragon and varietyshow for helping me shape this chapter up!

 

 

"Daraen," Chrom repeated, the pleasant, friendly smile growing on his face, "is that foreign?"

There was a beat of silence before Lissa doubled over again, her blonde pigtails and sides shaking with a peal of laughter so forceful that she was inaudible. The guardsmen who had their pikes pointed at Robin and Gregor started to chuckle before Frederick shamed them into silence and forced their backs straight with a glance. It took Chrom a bit longer to realise his mistake, and he gave a quiet titter as his ears and cheeks were tinged scarlet.

"I – that is to say –" he began before an awkward speechlessness overtook him, and the young prince waited impatiently for Lissa to finish with her mockery of him.

Robin found the scene rather jarring and not quite what she expected of the scions of Ylisse; however odd, it endeared them more to her all the same.

The soft rustling of the dogwood blossoms in the breeze broke the princess out of her fit and she quieted down before the entry was permeated with an air of expectancy. All eyes were on Chrom now, and he cleared his throat with a pointed glare at his sister before speaking.

"We are very pleased to have you here with us, your Highness," he intoned with a formal bow of the head, and Robin and Gregor reciprocated with a deeper bend of the waist in the hopes of alleviating the force of Frederick's stare. Chrom was a bit taken aback at their formality, given Robin's status, but went on.

"On behalf of the land of Ylisse and the furthest reaches of Naga's dominion, we extend our deepest thanks to you and hope that our time together results in many long years of peace and friendship to come," Chrom finished, pleased that his long hours of practice resulted in an acceptable statement, even if it was somewhat ruined by his initial blunder and Lissa poking fun at him for it.

Robin smiled, thankful for their polite reception, and tried to improvise an appropriate response.

"I – We most humbly thank you for your acceptance of our presence, and…beg you forgive our tardiness. We did not mean it so, and express our deepest shame for it. We…marvel at Ylisse's generosity, its nobility, and share your sentiments," she remarked cautiously, and was reassured by Gregor nodding along in agreement and encouragement.

"Great! So that settles it!" Lissa clapped her hands excitedly, turning to Chrom with a relieved expression. "We can go inside now, right? Let's get some rest, change into something nicer, get some  _water_  and then we can finally start everything!"

"Yes, let's," Chrom sighed, motioning to a pair of sentries to open the doors. As most of the guards moved back to their posts at the gate, Chrom, Robin and Lissa eagerly drank in the rush of cool air that escaped the hall and advanced toward it. Before Robin could step any further, an armoured hand was clapped over her shoulder and spun her into a sharp turn, forcing her eyes up into meeting the Great Knight's cold gaze.

" _Frederick_!" Lissa gasped, scandalised at his open disrespect, and while Gregor shouted and strained against the men tugging him back, Chrom seemed too shocked to form a single word.

"How did you get past the controls at the bridge?" he pressed, signalling some of the surprised soldiers to fan out towards the walls and the rest of the ward ( _as if we had the time to bring assassins with us,_  Robin thought).

"Or the city gates, for that matter?" he leaned in uncomfortably close.

"It's alright Gregor," Robin placed a hand over the seething captain's arm before facing Frederick. She reminded herself not to appear too calm lest she further arouse the man's paranoia, yet also to avoid an outright confrontation.

"We have the necessary documentation that His Highness's office provided," Robin answered carefully, as she slipped out the sheaf of papers from between her belts and overcoat and thrust them into Frederick's hand with a pointed look.

"And yet you still managed to bowl my men over rather than going over these with them."

She had to credit him at least with how hard he was trying to trip them up, Robin noted, hoping that the Arcwind tomes she had hidden in their clothes had disintegrated completely on their way up to the castle.

"Forgive me for my words, but I would have done that ten times over it if meant arriving earlier. I still find it hard to forgive myself for our tardiness."

"Be as it may, it does not change the fact that you came almost a full two weeks after every other party, and that there are protocols in place that we cannot stray from enforcing," Frederick remarked stiffly, curling his thumbs into her robe.

"Frederick, please," Lissa groaned, her eyes darting nervously between the assembly and the opened doorway. "We can take care of that inside – please, let's not humiliate him…"

Robin threw off her coat and tossed it unceremoniously to Gregor, who was barely able to catch it after having to have shrugged off the guardsmen's holds over him. A bright red sunburn marking Robin's white skin was revealed – Chrom's breath hitched at the sight. After she tugged off the pair of bronze swords sheathed to her hips and dumped them into Frederick's arms, she bent over and started working simultaneously on pulling off her bolero and boots.

"That's enough," Chrom heaved Robin up to her feet and shepherded her and Lissa into the shadow of the doorframe. "We've no need for that, not when it's keeping us from our schedules. And besides," he added, turning to his knight, "didn't you mention a visit to the infirmary? It certainly looks as though our  _guest_  needs it," he mentioned sternly.

"Of course," Frederick assented, and Robin sighed inwardly at how close they were to discovering her when they had barely arrived at the castle. She was to keep her guard up at all times and make sure that even the slightest possibility of detection was to remain strictly hypothetical.

It was a lonely, paranoid thought. Lonelier still was Gregor watching her from within the circle of guardsmen, and his plaintive eyes seemed to age him a decade more; when he caught her staring he grinned widely and waved, as though everything was fine and their goodbye was but an afterthought.

"He'll…he'll be alright, won't he?" Robin murmured morosely, alternating between worrying her lip and rumpled shirt.

"Oh, he will! We'll see to it that he's all set up for the evening.  _Right, Frederick_?" Lissa prodded insistently at their attendant's armour-clad side.

"We can prepare suitable quarters for him in the gatehouse, milady," was his curt answer, and Robin was irritated at his refusal to address her too.

"That's good…I uh, need him well rested for a missive to be sent tomorrow," Robin muttered lamely, and managed a quick, sad flick of her wrist to Gregor; the image of him being led down the steps was blocked out by the creaking doors being pushed closed. Lissa pressed her hand into the small of Robin's back and steered her past the threshold and into the cool hall, with Frederick and Chrom following close behind.

Her sense of foreboding grew, and yet was somehow balanced out by what she felt was inappropriately timed excitement.

Lissa filled in the silence by cheerily pointing out certain details of their space: the pale, creamy limestone used in the castle's construction, the red carpet occupying most of the floor – apparently only used when receiving foreign dignitaries, otherwise it was blue, Lissa explained – the torch brackets designed in the appearance of wyverns spouting flames.

Robin listened politely to her spiel but watched Chrom and Frederick out of the corner of her eye. The former seemed to be lecturing the knight on something, with said man nodding along at certain intervals. She quickly faced forward as soon as they caught up and flanked them, Frederick a pace behind. Certainly impressive was the size of the passage; it seemed possible that two soldiers riding abreast could fit in comfortably.

"It must be a pretty important message if you can't keep him here with you, is it? And, um, I hope I'm not being rude by asking this, but does it have anything to do with you showing up by yourself?" Lissa questioned innocently. Chrom saved Robin from having to reply by sandwiching himself between the girls and cutting across his sister.

"We can ask him later, Lis. Right now we should focus on getting cleaned up before we head to our stations. Doesn't a great big pitcher of ice water sound nice?" he pressed, his eyes sliding towards Robin in a conspiratorial wink.

"Oh, that sounds  _divine_!" Lissa sighed longingly. Robin remained cautiously silent, but mouthed  _thank you_  to her host. Whatever his future intentions, he was trying awfully hard to be welcoming and ingratiating, and for that she was grateful.

As the doors opened to reveal a spacious cloister filled with the gurgle of a fountain, the princess flagged down an available page without breaking stride. The servant (no more than a boy really) gawped in open astonishment at the sight of the moon shining back at him in the sun: not the product of his mother's scolding if he refused to be put to bed at night, but in the form of an exotic, unknown visitor. Frederick's shortly worded dismissal broke the child's stare, and off he went, whizzing up a staircase waiting behind the colonnade.

If the mutters and gestures that sprouted up from the few people milling about the walkways were daunting, then the thought of hundreds of judgemental, gossiping tongues waiting for her within the castle walls was beyond nerve wracking.

Here she would not only be tested, but her very abilities and endurance would be placed into question. Years of training and pain could be undone by a single misstep –

 _Stop being so melodramatic, you stupid girl_ , Robin's inner voice snapped as they approached the keep, an additional set of guards poised to ready their entry.

 _You've gotten this far…you can't turn back now, so you might as well brace yourself for whatever there is to come_. A fitting statement, she considered anxiously, for the very moment the mighty oaken panels were pushed forward with a deafening groan, and the trio ushered into the vestibule.

The sumptuous carpet reappeared, taking on the hue of jewelled pomegranates as the fabric and space surrounding it were drenched in sunlight. It streamed through windows that almost dominated the entirety of the left wall, with suits of armour belonging to heroes past glaring down from pedestals spaced between them. Corbels in the shape of pegasi supported a beautifully carved hammer beam ceiling, where the colours of Valm, Plegia, Regna Ferox and Ylisse fluttered and vied for space. And, at the very end, more flowing tracery was featured on a set of rosewood doors with a balcony on them; an immense bronze of the goddess Naga rested at its middle, with the window behind it creating an aureole that sent splinters and splashes of blue and green light dancing throughout.

The general effect was nothing short of awe-inspiring, and Robin was too caught up in her amazement to continue her moody train of thought. She was no stranger to grandeur herself, but it was impossible to not appreciate the majesty of such a place.

However, as all good things are wont to do, the moment came to an abrupt end as she was made aware of the silence.

Then, the whispers.

"He's scrawnier than I had imagined," an elderly nobleman pointed out to his companion.

"I thought he was much older than this," a haughty young lady dissolved into a fit of giggling with her band of lackeys.

"He looks very dirty," a little maidservant remarked disdainfully, and a footman shushed her with a nervous hiss.

Robin snuck a surreptitious sniff of her shoulder, unsurprised to find that she did indeed smell like a stable. But what could she do? She had to stuff her robes into the saddlebags to avoid being stopped on the road, and riding fast and hard had excluded any baths. Poor, sweet Gregor had failed to remember that a "few day's travel" was in fact much longer than that, and to make up for lost time they spent most of the days and nights on the move. The rag she had used to disguise her distinctive hair and protect her face from the sun was currently stuffed down her shirt to flatten her already small breasts, and it contributed to her overall sweatiness.

Chrom, previously very pleased to see Robin marvelling at his castle, frowned at the rudeness of his court; he itched to chastise them publicly, but figured it would embarrass Daraen and offend the more powerful among them, as annoying as it was to admit.

He had Frederick though, and it helped when the man turned his signature glare on the loudest of the bunch, creating temporary waves of quiet wherever he passed. Chrom made a grand show of slipping his arm over the prince's shoulder and pulling him close, offering him bits of trivia of his house:

"Did you know that it took almost a century for the builders to finish just this hall?"

"The carpet is almost entirely made out of Themian wool."

"Do you know why it's called a Katarine window?"

So on and so forth, with Lissa chiming in occasionally until they exited and a swell of sound grew right behind them.

They all continued with their idle chatter and pleasantries, with the siblings making approving remarks wherever Robin admired the scenery, until they reached a dark doorway on the second floor.

"Oh, Lis, there you are!"

A tall young man with neatly combed auburn hair and wearing the steel-blue cape and hat of an Ylissean Sage jogged to them and clasped Lissa's hands within his own. The princess laughed and pressed a kiss to his fingers before his eyes met Robin's and he looked her up and down with a wary face.

"So he's arrived huh? I'm Ricken. It's a pleasure to meet your Highness," the man bowed deeply. Robin tried to reciprocate but ended up butting heads due to their proximity, and Chrom failed to stifle a grin.

"I'm so sorry for that!" Robin patted the lad's shoulder before remembering that she didn't know him and snatched back her hand awkwardly. Ricken's expression turned from cautious to amused, and he laughed.

"No, if anything I should be apologising! I shouldn't have stood so close to your Highness," he bowed again and Lissa rolled her eyes fondly at him. Ricken elbowed her playfully and the young lady was about to retaliate before Chrom coughed pointedly.

"Oh! Right, right," Ricken muttered and he too cleared his throat, with an air of importance.

"The ladies prepared some couches for you all and I've asked Thomas to get some water. I sent Bartram to the kitchens to let them know of your Highness's arrival," another respectful nod in Robin's direction, "and Mary told me the rooms are all set."

"Thank you Ricken," Chrom murmured appreciatively and Lissa beamed proudly up at him.

At the same time the doors were thrown open rather roughly, and a fat, one-eyed crone eyed them critically from within the frame.

"About bloody time," she gathered them all into the infirmary and a younger nurse hurried to close the entry with a softer touch.

While Robin busied herself with admiring the pretty and well – lit space – she especially liked how the fanned vaults resembled dragon wings – Chrom, Lissa and Ricken sat themselves on the pale velvet green chairs, Frederick keeping a watchful eye a few steps away.

She joined them shortly after noticing the few patients in the wing were peeking at her from under their sheets. The same little servant boy from before carried a tray bearing a pitcher with ice fetched straight from the cellars, and small silver cups formed a charming little circle around it.

"Thank you Thomas," Robin gave the child a grin as she accepted her cup, and gulped down the drink with the force of a thirsty camel. Thomas's staring was interrupted by his tiny laugh, but the head nurse's glance in his direction sent him scurrying away, embarrassed, into the arms of a uniformed lady with the same ginger hair as him.

Chrom smiled fondly at the boy before inquiring, "We hope everything is to your liking so far. Is there anything that we may be able to provide for you? Hungry? Still thirsty?" The prince swept his arm as though offering the entire room.

At that moment, Robin understood the full extent of his naiveté towards the situation.

"Treating that sunburn should be the first on the list," the matron announced, setting down an assortment of ointments and elixirs as the nurses bustled around them with moistened cloths.

"Luella, you take care of his Highness," she pushed a thin, skittish girl towards Robin. The poor thing was totally silent as she wet a folded towel. Deciding that she too would be quiet – if it meant not scaring the nurse any more than she already was – Robin watched as she smeared a microscopic amount of ointment on the cloth.

Chrom and Lissa watched closely.

The tension was somewhat cut by the full absurdity of the nurse's behaviour – every time her hand came close to the Plegian's burnt arm, her frightened hum would grow louder, only for her to snatch her hand back and repeat the process again.

Lissa stifled a nervous titter and Chrom frowned.

"Oh, get  _on with it_  girl," the old woman growled as she bodily removed the nurse and saw to Robin's burn herself. "He ain't gonna bite ye," the woman scrubbed the red skin briskly, and while her's wasn't the gentlest of treatment, it got the job done well enough: the pain receded and her normal colour began to show.

"I'm sorry –" Luella began.

"Bandage duty," her mistress replied, and the girl let out a sob as her colleagues coaxed her over to a cabinet at the far end of the room.

Before another uncomfortable hush could settle over them, Robin addressed the old woman. "Your treatment is very much appreciated. I am very glad to have been in your capable hands."

"T'ain't nothin' but my obligation." She repacked her burn kit with a flourish and walked back to the cabinet to hand it over to the ashamed Luella for storage.

"We apologise for this –" Chrom began, his voice leaking a bit of desperation.

"It's nothing!" Robin reassured. "Really. You've all been so kind to me in the little time we've known each other – and it's really no trouble at all. In…in fact…I daresay that I'd rather we drop the formalities. You can just call me R – Daraen."

Chrom brightened considerably at that; Robin was thoroughly amused when he visibly straightened up in his seat. "Really? Ah, well then, you can call me –"

"Absolutely not," Frederick scowled from his place behind Chrom. Robin wanted to laugh at how Lissa and Ricken jumped at the sound of his voice, but was too unnerved by the speed at which he'd reached the couch from the door.

"High rank or not, foreign dignitaries are to observe protocol at all times as befitting milord's house. You are to refer to him as 'Your Grace' at all times."

"Oh, that's laying it on too thick, and in  _your_  case that's saying something," Lissa snapped. Her big blue eyes glittered with barely restrained annoyance. "Nobody will care if we forget about the stupid protocol for a moment! And besides, Chrom's not Exalted yet anyways—"

"That'll do Lissa," the man muttered.

The sullen hush returned to the atmosphere. Robin was sorely tempted to try and say something – anything – that could at least get them talking again. Her guilt at not being in the castle for a day and already causing trouble for her hosts kept her mute and curled up within herself.

It was Ricken who saved them.

"I…uhhh…oh, would you just look at the time? It's gotten so late that I can smell food already! Everyone must already be at the throne room by now, so we should hurry up and join them, huh?" he laughed a little too loudly.

Chrom blinked dumbly, but in the short time that it took for him to process it he was lifted out of his displeasure and his seat. "Oh…yes! Right. Food. Supper." He cleared his throat importantly and turned to the staring nurses.

"Ladies! We are very grateful for your attentions, but we must take our leave. We thank you kindly and, er, hope to see you soon at the banquet."

The women barely had any time to reply to their lord before he was out the doors in a speedy walk, with Lissa, Ricken, Frederick and Robin tagging along behind. She almost missed little Thomas's wave goodbye.

Chrom's panic over the possibility of arriving late to his own feast was palpable, and Robin thought that his urgency would compel him into a run. Her guilt doubled over the lengths he had to go not only to keep her comfortable in the short time she had spent there, but also to appease his subjects and other guests to keep everything on schedule.

"Do you know what you're going to wear?" Lissa panted as they turned a corner sharply and nearly upset a servant's tray.

"You know that I've got everything picked out since the week before, why ask now?"

"It's because it's so  _weird_  for you to be so well organised!"

"Very funny Lissa, just keep making fun of me in front of Daraen like that."

"Does your Highness know what to wear now too?" Ricken asked as they slowed to a stop in front of a solid, slate blue door. A detachment of guards, previously idling in the contiguous hallway, ran over immediately and bowed when they caught sight of Chrom and Frederick.

"Er…about that…" Robin began.

"You didn't bring any clothes." While Chrom didn't say it maliciously, it was still shameful to hear it being said at all. Robin nodded, mortified.

"And—and – you didn't bring your people either!" Lissa sounded very concerned, and her small hands clasped over Robin's beseechingly. "What happened?"

"Surely you would not believe it due to some woe of his, milady?" Frederick's iron-hard glare latched onto Robin's face. "This smells of a trap."

" _Frederick_." The toughness of Chrom's voice matched Frederick's unyielding stare. "Ask Mary to fetch my summer clothes – the older ones, not the silk. And have Rood and Karel here for the night shift."

Frederick didn't argue, but his gaze remained steely. "At once milord." Before he could leave, presumably to the prince's quarter's, Chrom leaned in for the slightest of moments before he was off.  _We will continue this conversation later_  was its clear meaning.

Eyes darting nervously between Chrom and Frederick's rapidly receding figure, Ricken bowed. "I better be readying myself too. I'll see you in a bit Lissa. Chrom, your Highness," he bowed again and took off at a slight jog with a small wave.

Chrom pursed his lips and shook his head in exasperation, watching Ricken for a quiet moment. "I beg your forgiveness," he said, turning to Robin with a stricken look. "He's a good man…he's never quite this rude. Please, don't think ill of him."

 _Or us_ , Robin understood.

"Don't worry so much on my behalf. I've no great expectations for kindness," she raised her hand lightly when it looked like Chrom and Lissa wanted to protest, "nor will I begrudge those who would refuse it. I have no right to demand it in the first place."

"That's not true…" Lissa whimpered.

To hear her speak so sincerely provoked a wounded smile from Robin; she held the blonde's hands gently.

"Perhaps. But to hear such words, and have such kindness shown to me is all I could ask from you. Please, don't trouble yourselves over what you cannot hope to have under control."

Robin drew back and allowed the guards to open the door to her quarters for her. "I think I should probably hurry myself – can't come any later than I already have," she tried to joke, her smile dropping slightly when the siblings didn't reply.

The only indication Chrom gave to being upset was the tightening of his jaw. Gazing intently at Robin for some moments, he later bowed stiffly and turned to leave with the squeak of his boots. Lissa struggled in his grip and whined about staying longer, but then huffed and waved sulkily goodbye.

"We hope to see you soon then." His blue eyes betrayed his worry, his meddlesome desire to press the issue further…his clear intention to disregard her reassurances.

 _If not a prince, then every bit a chivalrous lord_. Anyone else would have called him a damned fool for openly displaying such naiveté and candour, and while Robin was more than inclined to agree, it was precisely those qualities that made her decide that, so far, she liked him immensely.

Turning to enter her apartments, what she found was overall very pleasing: a handsome four poster snug within a navy blue coverlet and curtains; basic necessities like an armoire; other charming touches like a tapestry depicting a forest scene and a masterfully carved fireplace.

To her left, she glimpsed of what she assumed was a sitting room, and the door on the right was closed. There were, surprisingly, a number of Plegian details scattered about: faience from the Gwelo river region, a puzzle-box from Khoramshar lying on the desk, brass and coloured glass lamps from the capital.

Everything was, of course, in varying shades of blue, green and yellow. Lissa struck her as more of the decorating type than Chrom, and her thoughtfulness was very touching.

She suspected that the servants assigned to her were handpicked specifically for their open-mindedness, as a grandmotherly lady removed her coat with a warm smile. Though she supposed it was a tad ridiculous to assume they would run screaming at the sight of her, Robin remembered the way the people in the halls sneered.

Before she was able to enter the washroom to freshen up, strong knocking at the door drew her out of her thoughts. Opening it revealed Frederick's dour face and him holding assorted books balanced over neatly folded clothes. Mary the housekeeper stood next to him with a bemused expression.

"Milord sends these and bids you wear them for the evening," he placed them carefully in Robin's arms, "I've taken the liberty of compiling certain texts on etiquette to assist you during your stay; heavens know you need them."

"How considerate of you. If not for your efforts then I am certain I would be completely lost," Robin ground out, her servants sniggering at Frederick's expense.

Amazingly, her sarcasm flew right over the knight's head. He straightened up, surprised, but then gave a curt nod. "But of course. I live to serve and milord's household takes great care with hospitality." A pause. He looked at her strangely. "If there is something you require, do not hesitate to call upon me."

"Will do," Robin said drily, and allowed him to shut the door.

Her ladies clucked and fussed as they herded her into the washroom. "How much of that were his actual words, or milord Chrom's, d'you bet?" they inquired, drawing hot water into the tub.

"I can't quite tell myself, but do I hope he gets better at understanding human speech," she replied, and the maids laughed heartily.

"I'll take those milord," a younger lady stretched her hands out towards the clothes.

Robin blanched, but masked her brief alarm with politeness. "Oh. Um. I'd rather dress myself…I hope you don't mind. I'm rather accustomed to it." She scrambled for more excuses. "I had expected you would assist me with the hearth instead. Ylisse is much chillier than I had expected."

"If your Highness says so," the women said, sharing a confused look. They curtsied gracefully and shut the door with a click.

Robin surveyed the bathroom appreciatively. It was as beautifully decorated as her previous rooms and had a real tub with functioning plumbing and scented soaps, unlike the sorry excuses back in Southtown.

She sighed in exhaustion and wriggled out of her grimy, crusty clothing, scrubbing out the dirt from her body. She indulged in a brief soak while flipping through some of the books, and while she was right to expect the usual amount of idiocy, she had to admit there were several bits she was better off learning.

When she was done and smelt more closely like a proper human than a horse, she inspected the finery Chrom sent: parti-coloured hose, soft leather shoes and linen chemise, as well as a gorgeous saffron yellow doublet and jerkin that she knew would clash horribly with her pasty complexion.

Pulling the bandages she had snatched from the sick ward tightly around her chest, a sudden thought occurred to her that made her reconsider future dressing procedures:

_Does this mean I should stuff?_

 

 

* * *

 

Sprinting down the halls while trying to get a hold of her too big clothes – the only reason the hose stayed on was because she had pulled them up all the way to her chest – Robin had the distinct feeling that she was being followed.

"Sir – Sir! Your Highness!" the valets cried.

Oh. Right.

They skidded to a stop and, most indecorously so, pulled her behind a column.

"What's all this now?" Robin asked, trying to tamp down a spike of panic when the men pulled open her coat and fiddled with her shoes.

"Your Lordship left before we could make some," the blonde huffed as he stuffed some rags between her toes and heel, "much needed adjustments."

"Some  _last minute_ adjustments," his greying companion added as he packed more cloth into her sleeves and ( _carefuldon'tlethimtouchthere!)_  around her back.

"We shall ask the Lady Mary for additional clothes," the boy straightened up her collar. "And the seamstresses shall be sent for."

Robin squirmed away from their touch, ran back when she realised she had been rude and bowed awkwardly to them before heading into the throne room. The valets shared a confused look.

"Odd lad," the elder of the pair said.

"Throne room" was a bit of a misnomer due to its size. It seemed more appropriate to call it an audience hall, especially considering the fact that the entire court (or most of it, anyways) seemed to be present. Her attempts to enter unobtrusively were ruined by the loud fanfare that announced her arrival, and she tried not to look sheepish as she joined the other three ambassadors at the foot of the dais.

She heard whispers all through her walk down the nave, around a large brazier, and she figured she might as well start getting used to it.

Basilio was impossible to not recognise, even with the purple trim of the prætor's toga replacing his tight battle gear. The other two men she had never before seen; Robin assumed that the stunning blonde was Valmese due to his blood red garb and cold gaze, leaving the severe looking middle-aged man to be Rosannois.

"You may now rise," Chrom's surprisingly mature sounding voice rang with an echo.

Like the other three she had kept her head respectfully down, but looking up surprised her. Gone were the practical looks the siblings bore earlier, replaced with expensive fabrics and regal bearings: Lissa's hair was swept up into a snood lined with pearls, and long pearl necklaces trailed down her sunny yellow gown. Chrom provided a stark contrast, most of his clothes a cloudy black excepting his stormy blue jerkin. Silver clocking was featured on his hose and a heavy silver chain bearing the nation's crest rested over his heart. Had she not spoken to them but hours ago, she would have pictured the stern and wise rulers that storybooks favoured.

Robin thankfully caught herself staring and avoided embarrassment. She waited patiently until the other three had crossed up to the platform with the royal pair to kiss the star sapphire on Chrom's finger. Disgusted by the thought that a surely ancient relic had the saliva of hundreds (or – horrors –  _thousands_ ) all over it, she opted instead to brush her lips over his hand. She didn't dare raise her eyes but the way the prince squeezed her fingers in a quiet reply was reassuring, and she rejoined the others behind him.

Now they waited until a procession of eight robed men walked to the platform from the hall's entrance. Robin wondered if the way the banners hung from the columns indicated their order of appearance: a flaming torch, a sword, a sheaf of wheat, a flowering branch; two birds, a triskelion, a quill and chisel, and a plough and fish hook.

When they too had finished salivating over their sovereign, they lined themselves next to the ambassadors. Before she could fully study them to judge who presented the biggest threat, the din stilled as Chrom motioned for silence. An air of anticipation rose to fill the void.

"Cousins," he began, "friends. Honoured guests. We thank you all for your presence this evening. For the next months you bear witness to a historic and truly magnificent event. This is the first time in more than three centuries that the leaders of our worlds' great nations stand together, in this hallowed ground. Yet the historicity of this is not what matters. Rather, that we stand to make a difference. To be a guiding light in these dark times."

He paused for effect before continuing.

"War is a scourge. War takes and never returns, no matter how hard we may pray, how far we may run, or how long we may fight. These years have been hard on us, and to deny the people respite would be to condemn them to misery and suffering. To deny the world a cease would be callous and senseless, and the only thing we would have achieved would be the same results as our fathers."

Robin noticed several in the hall and the gallery above shifting uncomfortably at that.

"The very meaning of the word 'freedom' suggests the absence of pain and want. As we are now, we have the power and the strength to achieve that freedom for everyone's sake. Our children, and their children's children need not know the horrors of fear and loss. For we have all lost, and it is with that understanding that we need to strive towards a greater good. We cannot continue to cloak ourselves within suspicion and intolerance and expect any good from it. All peace is borne from trust, leadership and the initiative to compromise.

Emmeryn understood this better than anyone," his voice lowered, conveying the depth of his mourning to his audience. "Emmeryn's entire life's work was dedicated to the good of the country. She was willing to reach above and beyond for those in need. Her compassion compelled her to sacrifice her very life out of her love for us and her love of others. It is our hope that we can continue this legacy of hers and assure that her efforts were not in vain."

Chrom bowed his head to signify a moment of silence, and there was a ready compliance from all with the exception of a baby's cry. The anticipation had sobered into something sadder.

Robin's heart panged with the empathy of loss, and the deepest of guilt.

She took the opportunity to discreetly glance around: the second oldest of the men looked incredibly sorrowful. The youngest looked bored and was picking his nails but straightened up immediately when the quiet ended.

"She did not believe that faith, charity and hope were unattainable ideals. She did not believe that freedom and peace were half-and-half affairs. She knew that nations can fall, but the bravery and determination of a few can be enough to hold up even the weakest of foundations. It will not do to only remember her and those before her as martyrs, but as inspirations to push through with our goals.  _I_ come forth not as an Exalt, nor a sovereign, but a man like any other who understood what it is she fought for. And as a man like any other, I alone cannot hope to achieve a vision of this magnitude alone. I call on you to help me plant this seed, to spark this flame, and nurture it with care; for Naga herself looked upon the land when it was only but seedlings.

Today we stand committed to the proposition that we will not leave the table empty handed. We guarantee it to the world – we  _owe_ it to them. It is in these halls that we hope to reap what we sow and make good on our promises. Be it so that these times are not remembered by our descendants as a time of despair, but one of endless optimism for a shining future."

Subdued applause echoed throughout the cavernous chamber, yet it grew, bolstered by the strength of Chrom's conviction. It seemed to burn as brightly as the candles in the enormous chandeliers overhead.

Frederick stepped forward with a large golden torch and handed it to Chrom solemnly. The elderly man whom Robin noticed during the speech approached the prince and addressed the hall with a bow before conjuring a small blue flame in his circled hands.

" _Heavenly Mother, Sun of Our Skies, Light of Our Lives. We bid You watch over us and allow us the brilliance of Your Presence. It is with Your Grace that You have bestowed Your Fire upon us to keep us warm and safe. And thus we pray that the flame shall burn forever bright, and woe befall should we dare to let it die_."

He placed the blaze into the lip of the torch and bowed once more before retreating to his position. Chrom raised the torch high before striding confidently to the brazier and he deposited the flame into its pit.

The tiny spark grew monumentally in size until it towered almost to the height of the ceiling. The dragon within the flaming maelstrom threw its head back with a roar and stretched its mighty wings, drawing amazed and terrified reactions from the crowd. Almost as quickly as it started, the fire withdrew into the brazier and blue, yellow and orange light flickered warmly.

Thunderous applause broke the brief stupor. The show of approval had Chrom and Lissa grinning almost as brightly as the fire, and Basilio broke protocol to come forward and enclose them in a bone-crushing hug. Some of the robed men tutted sternly, but Robin felt rather moved at the display of affection.

There was a general sense of relief and excitement as a small army of servants herded the assembly into the passage joining the great hall with the throne room. Chrom's smile slipped a bit as the stream of people flowed past the dais, and he beckoned Frederick to him subtly. Robin watched as they exchanged a few words, the prince looking away but his expression somewhat strained. Frederick drew back, and for a second it seemed as though the knight would roll his eyes, but the annoyance was quickly smoothed over and he replied inaudibly. Lissa was more vocal in her impatience and bounded over to Robin with a loud clacking of pearls.

"You'll be sitting next to me!" she sparkled with mirth, and tugged the Plegian cheerfully (and surprisingly forcefully) along with the rest of those eager to start dining.

"Easy Lissa. Besides, you don't know if the seating plan will allow it," Chrom caught up to them with another of his effortless grins, Frederick and the robed men trailing behind.

"Uh, I checked it before, and it definitely says that Daraen is on my right. Weren't you supposed to know that already?"

"Whatever. You can be really intolerable sometimes, you know that?"

"Whenever you want, big brother."

Before Chrom could add a retort to what Robin was finding highly amusing, one of the men broke formation to shake Chrom's hands hysterically.

"Excellent speech milord! Truly one for the annals," his immensely fat girth wobbled enthusiastically. "The court seemed to find it rather touching, and I couldn't agree more!"

"Thank you Harald. Though I couldn't have done it without a lot of practice," he laughed. "And many revisions on Miriel's part," he added to himself.

"Oh, but you must admit that speech was always one of your talents! Milord is much too modest for his own good," the lord chuckled.

Robin piped up. "I distinctly remember his talks being rather popular on the battlefield. His soldiers always fought harder after being in his presence," she was pleased to see that the prince was blushing lightly under her praise.

"Oh, forgive my rudeness! I had totally forgotten that your Highness walked among us!" There was an oddly manic gleam in the man's chestnut eyes as he subjected her arms to the same vigorous pumping as Chrom's.

"It is no trouble at all, Sir…?"

"Harald, Harald Eschmann your Highness. I must say that your presence here is truly an inspiration! What an honour it is for my humble self to be in such noble company! How uplifting it is to witness the goodwill of our neighbours! I do hope you enjoy your stay here, and I assume that milord Chrom has already seen to it that you are suitably well accommodated. However, should the need arise, do not hesitate to seek me out! I shall do whatever you necessitate to, ah, facilitate your integration. And I must add that I am simply amazed, amazed I tell you, that I am able to observe the genius of your Highness in action! The stories they have told! The rumours that abound! Truly an honour! I do hope to accomplish many great things with your Lordship during the, ah, proceedings."

Robin was flabbergasted that he didn't seem the least bit winded when he finished.

Eschmann decided he wasn't and followed up by snatching her wrist and pulling back her sleeve.

"Oh my! You certainly are rather pale for your kind. Or is this a more common trait among your people?"

Ricken scurried to them from behind the jabbering masses, flustered and wrinkling his fine silk jacket from the effort. Chrom seemed to be competing in terms of redness and looped his arm over Robin, prying her away with a stream of apologies.

"Father, you can't just say something like that to others! A—a—and especially not people like the prince!"

"Come now son, I mean no harm from it! It was an honest question."

"An honest question he says! Next thing you know he'll be shopping for new linens to match that pasty skin of yours, kid!" a deep laughter boomed. Basilio marched to them with his usual bravado and smacked Robin's shoulder playfully; or at least that's what she assumed he thought he did since it felt like a bear rammed into her from behind.

"Are you sure that's even a joke? You're losing your touch Basilio," she wrinkled her nose.

"And I suppose you fancy yourself a jester to judge it, huh? That seems too unrealistic for such a serious guy like you," he smirked, and she rolled her eyes hard.

Chrom raised a questioning brow. "So you're acquainted with Basilio, Daraen?"

"We've seen each other here and there. Mostly on the field," Basilio interrupted.

"He tried to crush my head in. On multiple occasions."

"Good times, good times. But we can let bygones be bygones, and now we're all gathered here for the  _noblest_  of intentions," he thwacked her again, and Robin was almost annoyed that Chrom and Lissa seemed torn between confusion and amusement.

Lissa perked up significantly when they entered the hall. "I can smell the food already!" she squealed.

Robin identified with the princess's excitement. Ignoring the servants and Master of Ceremonies directing them to their own table on another dais, she thought of the long days spent with the meanest and dirtiest of rations – or more often, none at all. The anxiety gnawing at their bellies had sometimes helped her and Gregor to cope. But now, she would be feasting in the company of fellow royals, on whatever she liked and whatever amount.

She wished that Gregor might be in the hall, too. She was still brimming with apprehension and missed him terribly, but the only invitees she saw were nobility, staff and other assorted castle folk.

Once they reached their spots they too were divided with an easy efficiency: Chrom and Lissa sat the head, with Robin to her right and Basilio to his left. Next to Robin was the gorgeous Valmese blonde, and Basilio shared his space with the Rosannois. Following them were the eight men, and judging by the fact that they were sharing a table, Robin deduced that they were Chrom's councillors.

The spectacled elder who had blessed the torch uttered a disapproving tsk-tsk at Eschmann as he shuffled to Chrom's side again. Before everyone was to be seated, servants emerged from a screened passage parading a rainbow of dishes. The main table was served first, and Robin's mouth watered uncontrollably.

"Let us say grace," the elder pronounced, closing his eyes and raising his upturned palms.

" _Heavenly Mother, Sun of Our Skies, Light of Our Lives. We bid You watch over us and allow us the brilliance of Your Presence. It is with Your Grace that You have made the earth fruitful and kept our people hearty and hale. We honour this meal –_ "

Robin's stomach chose that moment to groan horribly. Basilio laughed, Lissa giggled and the priest raised pleading eyes to the ceiling.

"— _And plead that the future holds as much bounty as our present_."

The guests murmured their assent throughout the hall and the disgruntled man walked silently to his chair.

Four lads bearing trays to the head table followed an old woman with incongruously muscular arms. The pantler offered up the bread and another a handsome set of carving tools. The Master of Ceremonies presented the table with a heavy silver saltcellar, and Chrom broke the bread and dipped several pieces into the salt. The Master tasted one and, having deemed it safe, distributed the rest among the seated.

Robin discreetly licked a bit of drool away from her lips.

Another young man brought a tray of silver goblets, Chrom and Lissa's being chased gold and glass. The last of the party bore a ewer and the Master dropped a bezoar into the container. Satisfied, he passed it to Chrom and the wine was poured into the cups.

Robin wanted nothing more than to snatch the pitcher up and chug it all down.

Finally, Chrom used the carving set to slice several cuts of bear – Robin had seen it being carried on a sturdy oak stretcher, and it looked and smelled delicious, dripping with a rich brown sauce and lined with baked onions and apples. These too were divided between the diner's plates, and as they were placed before them, Robin plunked into her chair and tore into the meat with relish, savouring her first true meal in weeks,  _dear gods this is amazing –!_

She was painfully aware of the overwhelming silence around her. Looking up, with gravy smearing her lips and fingers, the rest of the present company stared at her. They hadn't even sat down yet. The Master and the priest looked completely horrified; the Rosannois and some of the councillors disgusted, and Basilio was grinning like a madman.

"Forgive me. I couldn't control myself," she started to ramble, scrambling for whatever excuse she could pass off as even remotely appropriate. "The sight and scent alone were enough to make me forget whatever manners I have."

"Now  _there's_  something you don't hear every day in your career!" the elderly woman revealed a gap-toothed smile and clasped her hands delightedly: she must have been the head cook. "If only I could hear that kind of praise from you whelps," she cuffed Chrom's shoulder playfully, "and the rest of you ungrateful louts," her cackling could be heard all the way into the kitchen passage as she left, and the overwhelmed Master tried to offer an apologetic shrug before he hurried after her.

 _She must be quite special and talented if she's allowed to speak to her superiors like that_ , Robin mused as the rest took their places and began to eat.  _But one more slip-up like that and you can be sure that their forgiveness and your dumb luck will run out quick, you stupid girl._

"Oi, cheer up old man," Basilio reached over the Rosannois and shook the elder forcefully. "It's not the end of the world. Besides, if the food really is poisoned, then at least you know the Plegian didn't do it!"

There was weak laughter all around, and the older man looked a bit queasy himself. At the very least Chrom and Lissa still offered reassurances.

As the princess sniggered faintly and told Robin no, the tablecloth is most certainly not for wiping your hands on, that's what the napkins are for, her tone turned for the serious and she leaned in confidentially.

"You didn't bring any servants, you don't have any clothes, you're eating like a starving person…what happened?" Robin felt a prick of annoyance for having her personal affairs being butted into, but Lissa's pout and the reminder that she had been kind to her and, well,  _deserved_   _to know_ , tamped it down.

"It's…a bit of a long story. To keep it short, we were basically shipwrecked."

"Shipwrecked?!"

"Yes, that's the gist of it. Yeah."

"You poor thing!"

Again, the irritation. But Lissa's sad eyes looked sincere, and she was surprised to have her holding her hand in sudden sympathy. Chrom said nothing but a supportive nod was enough.

As Lissa prattled on about how well they would take care of her and how she wouldn't want for nothing during her stay, she occasionally interrupted herself, along with her brother, to point out useful tidbits on table etiquette.

She took the rest of the time to learn about the eating habits of the nobility as well as the rest of the guests sharing the table. In Plegia as well as Chon'sin the whole meal was served all at once, but here it was organised into courses. Apparently the planning had deviated from presenting types of food in a certain order to displaying national foods from guest nations, with subtleties of marchpane and spun sugar representing their seats of power for each course.

Ylisse was shown through hearty soups, the delicious bear and sweet winter preserves paired with cheeses and bread. Robin was enchanted by the spelled sugar pegasi flying around the towers and walls of Ylisstol castle. Regna Ferox had a wide variety of sharply flavoured pickles, smoked ox, and candy soldiers that battled around the Khan's Palace.

As she sampled her way through Rosanne and the Valmese Empire she quietly observed her companions and was careful to reply politely whenever prompted, but not in a way that would suggest spinelessness.

The priest who had led them in prayer was Anton Kospa of House Ænselm, second only to Chrom in terms of control over the church as head of their religion. While she perceived dislike from him during the beginning of the meal, he was appropriately deferential and even shy when they spoke. He seemed all right so far, but it would do to keep an eye on him.

Eschmann she had already met. It was clear from the get-go that he was incurably eccentric and over-excitable, and while she didn't appreciate his initial grabbiness she had a gut feeling that he was at least somewhat trustworthy. His house, Stoecklin, had risen from hard times after the death of the previous Minister of Finance; he had been promoted after his son's marriage to Lissa, he explained, and he waved enthusiastically to him a table over while the lad hid his face with a hand.

"Forgive me for my impertinence, your Highness, but I believe I speak for most when I respectfully request a change in music. Perhaps something livelier for our guests?" Tobias Falstaff spoke smoothly, and his well trimmed goatee and sharp red eyes painted a very handsome and cultivated image.

But there was a hard edge to his demeanour when Robin had faced him, and he never spoke to her unless directly addressed. She knew that not only was he certainly among the more prejudiced members of Chrom's court, but that he would be impossible to sway and would challenge her every step of the way. The question was whether it was more efficient to simply counter him or to also try to find which councillors could be played against him.

"Yeah Chrom! We've had nothing but these slow and sappy ballads. Even the tumblers look bored!" Lissa accidentally sprayed crumbs onto her trencher.

Chrom, previously in happy conversation and sporting a rather far off look in his eyes, seemed affronted by the very suggestion. "If you say so…"

He motioned to one of the servants stationed behind his chair. Instructing her quietly, the maid bowed and left, returning shortly with a green-haired man in tow.

"Lewyn, it seems that a change has been requested. You do still have the lists I've compiled?"

"I do milord. Which scores shall we be playing from?" the bard seemed highly amused by the exchange.

"The, uh, happier ones."

Lewyn bowed. "At once, milord."

Soon after, breathy notes began floating from the minstrel's gallery, reverberating throughout the hall.

_I'll swim and sail on savage seas_

_With ne'er a fear of drowning_

_And gladly ride the waves of life_

_If you would marry me_ …

Lissa groaned and some of the councillors grimaced uncomfortably. "Ugh. I take it back. I'd rather listen to all of those ballads back to back if it means not hearing this song ever again!"

Chrom's face had taken on a lost, dreamy quality, eyes glazing over as a curiously soft smile played about his lips. "Oh, hush," he replied dazedly.

The rest of the meal progressed somewhat uneventfully, and Robin wondered why Chrom's inattention seemed to worsen with each passing song. They soon reached the end of the banquet, with Plegia being the last course. She could tell that few had any idea what her national cuisine was like, but was mollified by the fact that they at least tried; she nibbled on what looked like an attempt at lamb kebabs as she watched jackals and wyverns chase each other over the subtlety of her capital's walled city.

Chrom was snapped out of his stupor as the table was voided and he stood to give a toast. Several had been stated before, with many a courtier hilariously sloshed by then, but the prince had refrained until now so that it would be more meaningful.

"We thank you all for attending this feast—" he began, and was interrupted by a few raucous "hear hears!"

"—And we hope it surpassed your highest expectations. This is but the beginning of many happy nights together, and we hope that those future nights are also filled with more merrymaking and joy to come," he raised his goblet high. "To peace!"

The hall exploded into a cacophony of shouting, many variations of "to Ylisse!" and Chrom or Emmeryn. Said prince managed a tight smile: Robin noticed how he, in his nervousness, had cracked his glass, his dark sleeves hiding the rivulets of wine that dripped down his wrist and onto his golden trencher.

As he wiped himself hurriedly, the hall was cleared and the guests moved into a set of large drawing rooms to dance, gossip, gamble or any combination of the three. Attendants wove between the guests to offer mead, more wine, and cookies. Robin was sad when the spicy-sweet taste of Plegian grapes danced about her tongue as she accepted another glass.

_Gods' wounds! Drunkenness is the fastest way to a loose tongue, you silly girl! Get a grip._

She felt a bit awkward standing around with the councillors and other ambassadors, but it seemed as though they were to remain together for this part of the night as well.

Chrom wasn't helping matters by constantly looking throughout the room and being distracted in the conversation.

"If I may, I would like to have the pleasure of sharing this," Ghislain du Berry, the man representing Rosanne, sniffed primly as one of his footmen retrieved an expensive looking bottle for him.

Basilio perked up instantly. "Oh, is that a '39? Great year for the grapes."

"Indeed it was," the noble smoothed his cravat as tall goblets were poured for them.

Robin snuffled uncertainly at the rim, uncomfortable with being plied with more alcohol when all she wanted to do was sleep. "I'm sorry…I'm not familiar with this."

"It's champagne," Pheros, the Valmese envoy, explained gently.

"Oh," Robin said.

She took a small sip of the pale beverage and frowned slightly.

"Yes?" du Berry pressed, somewhat anxious that she looked like only one who wasn't enjoying it.

"It's quite delicious," she muttered. "But…"

"But what?"

"It's too…bubbly."

Basilio and a flame haired councillor burst into drunken guffaws, while du Berry spluttered indignantly. All Robin could manage was a tired shrug before, thankfully, Chrom swooped in to her rescue.

"I think he's had enough for the day," his diplomatic tone smoothed over ruffled feathers as he handed her glass to Basilio. "And he's had a trying past weeks. It would be for the best if he heads back to his quarters."

"I'm not a child," Robin grumbled under her breath. She didn't protest, however, and was clearheaded enough to manage appropriate  _thank yous_  and  _good evenings_  to the present company before she shuffled off to her rooms.

She was almost halfway there when, to her surprise, Chrom was jogging to her side. He was slightly sweaty and flushed, but the shine to his eyes showed that he wasn't as absentminded as before, at least.

"That went well," he started, waving congenially to the men and women assigned to care for the night's torches.

She grunted noncommittally in reply and they fell into a companionable silence as they walked.

"It was enjoyable," she finally remarked, as they reached the blue door and the guards assigned to her knocked to let the servants know of her arrival. "I'm sorry I had to cut it short."

"No need for that," he gestured airily, as her ladies drew her another bath and prepared the warming pans. His gaze searched her own, slight concern betraying him. For a moment, it looked as though he wanted to add something, but he gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head and settled instead for holding her hands.

"We owe a lot to your presence," his voice had gone suddenly low, "and it means a great deal to us to have you here."

"I'm surprised you'd have me at all," her reply was equally hushed, and she wondered why they were speaking as though they were exchanging secrets. It was a nice feeling though, to share a semblance of confidentiality. "I hope that me being here will at least fix some things…and mean something better for us."

"For us," the prince echoed, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips. Robin didn't know if it was the alcohol or something else, but the warmth that suffused her at the sight was pleasant and soft. At that moment, his trustworthiness had completely solidified into something tangible and strong.

He suddenly looked a bit self-conscious and drew back. Robin was a little disappointed, but kept to herself as the prince patted her clumsily.

"I do hope you get a good night's rest. We rise before dawn, and the day will be long."

"I'll keep that in mind," her legs shifted tiredly. "I hope you'll sleep well too."

He rubbed the back of his head stiffly, and they remained standing in the doorframe for a while until Chrom bid her goodbye and left. Her guards were entertained by the whole exchange, but she paid them little mind as she watched Chrom's figure disappear into the hallway.

She wanted to protest against another bath on the basis of using up too much water, but the wonderful heat loosened her aching muscles and let her relax enough to mull over the day's events. She wrapped her chest in several thin washcloths under the provided nightgown, and realised she had taken quite a while when she returned to see her attendants already asleep on their cots.

_That's good. It gives me enough time to write._

Robin pulled out fresh sheets of parchment from the desk and carefully lit a small candle; even though the hearth was burning too much darkness was cast over her little nook. She wet her quill with a satisfactory amount of ink and began to scratch away:

_Aversa_

_You must be worried sick by now, but I hope it pleases you to know that we've made it safely to Ylisse. The bad news is that by "we" I mean our sea captain and myself – Robin._

_We lost part of the crew by Ylisse's southern coast, Daraen included. I beg to the gods in the hopes that he is still alive, but I'm not deluding myself into thinking that he had much of a chance. I'll request HRH Prince Chrom into allowing a search party in the hopes that perhaps he did… I'll be sending Gregor, the captain, to oversee it. He should make good time to the border. Send whomever else you see fit to him._

_I need my clothes, my books, and my tools – see that enough of Daraen's things are mixed in to throw off suspicion. A foreign court may excuse the custom of loose clothing, but never using fitted trousers here is sure to raise questions. Have the caravan start moving, and explain to them that under no circumstance are they to discuss this development at any stop or even once they arrive. Any question is to be directed to me or amongst them._

She rubbed her eyes and watched the candle gutter with her exhale.

_More to come soon enough. Please write back quickly._

_Robin._

Pinching a glob of bright green wax, she melted it with the candle and used the stamp the castle provided, as well as her ring, to seal it in an envelope. She then conjured a small red spark on her fingertip and set it ablaze, knowing that the spell would see it safely in Aversa's hands. The sorceress had refused to teach her the rest of the incantation, stressing that it was to be used only as a private line between them.

Robin knew part of the reason was borne from her irritating sense of pride in casting, and she could think of many situations that could have been avoided had she known the entirety of the spell too. Nonetheless, Aversa would reply soon enough, and having a secret and impenetrable form of contact was merely an added layer of insurance.

As she settled into the warm mattress, her thoughts drifted back to Chrom, Lissa and the banquet. The food and drink rested pleasantly in her belly, and the pair had left an impression of friendliness and warmth. She could trust them.

But then the whispers, the pointing, Falstaff, her very circumstances, soured her thoughts. The insidious voice inside her head murmured about assassins and threats around every corner.

 _Never Chrom and Lissa_ , she protested.  _Not them. They were honest. They were kind._

 _Oh, but you can get attached_ , it hissed back.  _You will get attached and you won't be able to protect them from others who would use them against you. You can pretend that you can make friends, but they will betray you and scorn you like any other_.

_They can still hurt you._

Her mind now swimming in paranoia, she went to sleep feeling very lonely, uncertain and sorry for herself.

Robin missed Daraen terribly.

 

 

* * *

 

 Elsewhere in the castle, another young maiden was in distress as well.

Her reasons were, however, a cause of annoyance for the Lady Margaret.

"I swear, I left them right there!" Luella bawled, ignoring her colleagues' attempts to soothe her. "I counted, and I checked that there were exactly three more in the box!"

"Dear, no one will mind if a few bandages are missing," the matron growled, her patience having run out a while ago. She wanted to go to sleep, but of course, there was a problem to be found and Luella in tears for it. "We can always replace them."

"B-b-but we were supposed to ration them but I'm stupid and useless and I can't do anything right and they're not there! A-a-and it's all m-my faauuuulllltttt!" the girl wailed. The few patients that were sleeping in the dormitory began to wake with howls of complaint, and little Thomas, who had been put to bed several hours ago, toddled in with his very cross-looking mother crying about the noise.

Margaret sighed harshly through her nose, her eye rolling hard. The nurse nearest to her recognised the look and fetched her a hot tot of whiskey.

"Two weeks on the job," she grumbled, downing the alcohol in one go.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that my guilt at not having this ready sooner compelled me to write these 27 pages -- but I guess that's my lot in art school! I hope that this makes up for a year's time. 
> 
> Additionally, I've been trying to gather a lot of information to sort of keep this in the idea that this is the world of Awakening in a Shakespearian setting - books like Christopher Hibberts' The English: a Social History, DK Travel's Great Britain and Northern Ireland, as well as The Tudors wiki (particularly the costume section) and my Signet Classics copy of Twelfth Night itself have been a great help. The Awakening wiki was indispensable as ever, as was Wikipedia for providing me information on medieval and renaissance architecture. The entrance hall of Ylisstol Castle is basically a huge ripoff of St. George's Chapel hall in Windsor Castle, and most of my architectural references are from castles Bolsover, Bamburgh and Edinburgh. If you have the opportunity to visit them any time soon I strongly suggest you do because castles are awesome and so is history.
> 
> If anyone wants to discuss more about this fic or history in general, my inbox is always open, as is my blog. Feel free to talk about what you liked, loved, disliked, or hated! Reviews are highly appreciated and I thank everyone who took the time to read this, especially after having waited for a year.
> 
> Lastly, because I love the little bits of trivia and questions that some writers add to their fics too, I think it'd be nice to include some at the ends and introductions of later chapters.
> 
> This chapter's question is: what kind of window is Chrom talking about, and why do you think I named it like that?


	3. Sides and Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to give my deepest, deepest thanks to the fantastic Iturbide. My knowledge of writing only goes so far, and screaming over their angsty ANGSTY fic, "The Future Built Upon the Past", definitely got some editing juices flowing. Special thanks also to Peaches for filling the chat group with more angst, and newmrsdewinter, ellisama, rosewarden, and arihime for further inspiring me.

 

 

 

Basilio was enjoying himself thoroughly. The food was excellent, the wine flowed freely, the present company made for excellent conversation (and was easy on the eyes too), and he had made it through the night without vomiting once.

Well, the last bit was a lie: he had done it discreetly in one of the large flower pots spaced around the room and he made sure to disguise it with a few strategically placed leaves. And besides, the only who had seen him was that batty old marchioness, and she always looked as though she was smelling something unpleasant.

Pocketing his winnings from his last match of tarocchi, he returned to the ambassador’s group with a jaunty stride, only to find that they were still talking about the young Plegian.

“He seems rather lost.” Ó Fearghail, the shrivelled old Minister of Foreign Affairs, spoke with his dry, reedy voice.

“His table manners were absolutely disgraceful,” du Berry sniffed. Apparently, he had still not gotten over the fact that his country’s best export product did not garner the usual fawning reaction.

“Are you _sure_ he’s come of age? He looks rather..out of place.”

“If anything, his age should be the least of our troubles—there _are_ guards posted at his door, correct?”

“ _That’s enough_ ,” Chrom snapped, the alcohol and genuine anger colouring his face in a bright flush as he silenced the speakers with a glare.

“I don’t care if you don’t like him, I care that as my men you are civil enough to act like my councillors instead of—of—a bunch of baboons,” he finished lamely, downing the last of his glass. “And if this kind of behaviour continues at the summit, then you can be sure that a demotion is in the works.”

“My apologies, milord.” Valentine, the man who mentioned the guards said, not sounding sorry at all.

The group stood in a chilly silence, with the foreigners examining them with a sort of benign detachment.

Well, not Basilio, at least. He knew that Chrom was the sort of person who still had schoolyard fantasies of everyone getting along, and conflict distressed him easily.

The time spent with Daraen would test Chrom’s patience and prove who exactly among his councilmen would resist his attempts to unify them in pursuit of the common goal of peace; _difficult_ was an understatement. Had it been a lesser lord, Basilio would have laughed in his face. Except this was Chrom being earnest as usual, and instead, he felt pity.

“It is getting a bit late for my tastes,” Duke Falstaff interjected with his usual smoothness. “And I do believe that we’ve an early rising tomorrow. Gentlemen,” he offered the assembly a polite bow. “Milord. I bid you all a pleasant sleep, and I look forward to a productive first day.”

There were a few half-hearted replies as they bade their good nights and took their leave. Valentine muttered something about it being past his daughter’s bedtime anyways, and Chrom gave them all tight, courteous smiles as he clasped their hands and saw them off.

“I’d turn in too, if I were you.” Urquhart, Chrom’s general and Minister of War, thumped Basilio on his back, his round face as red as his wild hair. “We rise before dawn, and you know how the grounds get this time of year.”

“Nonsense! I’ve done fine on a few winks, and I’d rather go back to the tables for some more fun,” Basilio grinned.

Urquhart shrugged but smiled in response. “Suit yourself! Oh, and one more thing,” he turned to face the khan, much more serious this time. “Don’t keep Sully up any later than she needs to be.”

“Never figured that the Bull actually sings like a canary,” Basilio muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing. I promise to behave myself.” Basilio began to slur slightly, and the general rolled his eyes before he set off with a wave.

The khan started back to the card tables, narrowly missing a servant girl with a wine ewer before Chrom caught up with him and cleared his throat loudly, his previous inattention and irritation forgotten.

“I...hope I’m not bothering you with this…” he murmured, not quite able to meet the older man’s eyes.

Basilio, sighing now that he realised he wasn’t going to sneak in another match, mustered up all the composure he could manage in his inebriated state. “It’s not _me_ you’d be bothering...” he paused. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather see her yourself? There’s no harm in it. And if I do say so myself, it would be more honest if you did. She prefers that.”

Chrom fidgeted under his gaze, hot and sweaty and pink, and shyly revealed the beautiful necklace he had hidden in his pocket: diamonds and rosy quartz crowded around a lovely gold chain and glimmered warmly in the torchlight.

“I—I _know_ that—yet I have the impression that she’d rather not see me, at least not now. And—and if she wills it so, then I will keep my distance for as long as she likes.”

Another beat. Basilio was sorely tempted by the sounds of laughter and the clink of coins by the terrace.

“Chrom…”

“Look—can you just give it to her? Please?”  

Basilio heaved another sigh. “You’re much too old for these schoolyard games, _milord,_ ” he drawled, his previous cheekiness returning as he pocketed the chain.

Chrom laughed and rubbed his head sheepishly, entirely unbecoming for his station. He lingered in an awkward silence before taking his leave. “I better check on Daraen...he seemed out of sorts, and I wouldn’t want him getting lost in that state.”

“You’re awfully preoccupied with him considering you’ve known him for less than a day.”

“W-well, I am his host.”

“You’re not mine too?”

“You of all people don’t need a guide. Besides, you’re a grown man!” Chrom laughed. “Not that he _isn’t_ —you know what? I’ll just leave now. Get some rest Basilio,” he shook hands and left as unobtrusively as he could. It would not do to end the merrymaking for the rest of the castle just yet.

_Except for me_ , Basilio thought. _You can be a right old stick-in-the-mud when you put your mind to it, boy._

What looked like an inky black shadow peeled itself off a well hidden corner and skulked over to him with an air of disapproval.

He groaned aloud. “You too, Lon’qu?”

“We have a _summit_ tomorrow, not some get together for idle chit-chat.” Lon’qu scowled severely. Basilio did not think his frown could descend any further, even with his usually sour attitude. “I am not a childminder.”

“And yet you do a fine enough job of sounding like one.”

“I am not letting you make a fool out of us when they find you asleep and wine sodden instead of filling your seat.”

“And you won’t, because,” he paused to hail a servant and pluck a fresh goblet from her tray, “I’m a grown man and I don’t need fussing over. Whatever happened to being my right hand?”

Lon’qu snatched the glass away angrily. _“You promised Olivia.”_

The words deflated the ambassador’s cockiness instantly; though he grumbled, he set the wine on the tray of another passing servant and both men started for the terrace.  

“Besides,” Lon’qu said after the moment of quiet, “at this point a childminder would be better suited for this job.”

“Now you’re just being pedantic.”

Basilio admired the night scenery as they strolled away from the main keep. The sound of lutes and harps filled the air along with the merriment of courtiers bowling on a well kept lawn, and young ladies danced around flowering bushes that glowed with pretty fairy lights. Farther ahead, wilder revelers (a great deal of Feroxi among them, he noticed proudly) challenged each other to feats of strength and screeched out bawdy songs at whoever came near. The tune of the night was about alley cats and the men who chased them.

“What a _dreadful_ strain on the ears! I had hoped that awful thing would have lost popularity by now.”

The duo looked to the source of the haughty sniff, and found him managing a light jog to reach them. Virion had never been one for rousing pub ditties, and while Basilio did not hold it against him, he also never disclosed that he enjoyed listening to them together for the sheer hilarity the duke’s running commentary provoked.

Tonight, his attire consisted of a flashy waistcoat in kingfisher blue, complemented by an enormous, snowy white ruff; a soft velvet cap trimmed in silver and topped by a glossy feather completed the birdlike impression, but then again, his long, thin nose and stilt-like legs already merited that comparison.

“The night’s yet young, friend; I’m sure there’ll be more to come! You have too high a bar for songs.”

“I would hardly call those drunken utterances songs, much less music!” Virion scoffed.

“You’ll absolutely _hate_ staying at our quarters then: we brought our own musicians!” Basilio laughed.

True to his word, the songs grew louder and rowdier as they approached the ward housing the visitors’ apartments. The pretty gray stonework of the villa had been defaced with sashes slung over the building as though it were a maypole. Drunken Feroxi men dabbled in the fountain (one whom had his head deep inside the water and his bare arse hanging out), and the women alternated between drinking copiously and vomiting in the bushes, rinsing and repeating dutifully.

“I say!” Virion was scandalised.

The sounds from inside the apartments were not much better, as mad hooting was punctuated by the sound of expensive décor crashing and a horribly tuned lute. A familiar, rough voice was heard ordering unseen people in vain, and before Basilio even knocked, the door was flung open to reveal a shock of wild red curls and eyes even redder with anger.

“For gods’ sakes,” the woman growled. “You’ve got to stop coming in so damn late. Olivia’s been up my arse the entire night over you.”

Basilio shrugged carelessly. “Let her except, before excepted.”

“Don’t start getting all philosophical on me. You’re a guest and you should know the difference between being down for a party and being that guy who’s too damn wild for one. You’ve got to confine yourself to some damn limits for a change.”

“Confine? The only thing I’m confining myself to is the clothes I’m wearing, and they’re good enough to drink in any night I please. And if my boots aren’t, then they can hang themselves by their own laces!”

“All that drinking is gonna fry your liver, but your brain’s already long gone,” she spat. “And Olivia’ll yell at _me_ for it.” She paused her spiel long enough for a cursory acknowledgement of Lon’qu, and her eyes stopped critically on Virion. “Who’s the new guy?”

“My dear,” Basilio bowed with an exaggerated flourish. “I present to you the noblest Duke Virion.” Said duke tipped his hat and bent low at the waist in an even more overdrawn display, and the woman’s lip furrowed, unamused. “Rightful ruler of the Duchy of Rosanne.”

“So this is the guy you’ve been telling Olivia about. Looks like a damn fop.”

“Why, he’s as tall as any Ylissean or Feroxi. He speaks at least four different languages, plays the _viol-de-gamboys_ as good as any virtuoso, and is hands down the best archer I’ve ever seen. A prodigy born with all of nature’s best gifts,” Basilio boasted and slapped Virion on the back. In a lower voice, but still loud enough to be heard by those in the fountain, he said “and he earns 3,000 ducats a _year_.”

“I appreciate such kind words, Khan, but I would rather not discuss my salary—” Virion began.

“So he’s a fool _and_ a fop, height notwithstanding,” she cut in. “A real natural born prodigal. I’ve heard about this guy. If he didn’t have the coward’s gift for running he would’ve died a long time ago.”

“Who said that? Whoever told you all that is a lying piece of garbage,” Basilio slurred and belched.

“Same people who says he takes you out drinking every night.” She did not even attempt to disguise her disapproval.

Basilio guffawed and burped again. He attempted to sling his prætor’s toga over his shoulder but ended up flinging the purple fabric uselessly into his face. “We only toast to my beautiful niece. And I’ll drink to her as long as there’s booze and good men in this world. And Duke Virion,” he hiccupped, “is a very good man.”

“Sure he is,” the woman replied drily.

“I say,” Virion finally had a turn to speak. “That, while your words cut deep as to wound, it would be foolhardy of me to not appreciate the honesty of a fair shrew.” He bowed again.

She wrinkled her nose derisively. “Sully.”

Virion looked askance to his waistcoat, and turned his questioning gaze back to her. “My wardrobe is sullied, you say?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes impatiently. “The name’s _Sully,_ Your Grace.”

“My niece’s maid,” Basilio smirked.

_“Temporary,”_ Sully warned with a snarl.

“Miss Sully—” Virion tried again.

_“Lady.”_

“Lady Sully, it is my deepest honour to make your acquaintance.” The duke made to kiss her hand but she snatched it back at the last moment. Virion gave her a look that attempted to communicate his confusion; very few women had refused him in such a manner before.

“Look, _Your Grace,_ ” Sully drawled, unimpressed. “I usually don’t believe in judging a book by its cover or whatever dumb court gossip passes by. But a girl’s entitled to her opinions, and with what I’ve seen, your hand’s better suited for holding a beer than it is holding mine.”

“I shall have you know that I am making a sincere attempt to stay dry, milady.”

“Not as dried-up as you already are.”

“Is...that supposed to be a joke of sorts?”

“Yeah, I’ve got all sorts of jokes up my sleeve,” Sully said dismissively. “But once I close this door, it’ll be on the biggest joke of all.”

She slammed the door in their faces. The entire courtyard had gone silent listening attentively to the exchange, and the man who was bottoms-up in the fountain yelled “I’ve never seen someone put down that hard, bruv,” before popping his head back in the water. Basilio snorted drunkenly before Lon’qu elbowed him hard in the ribs, and cleared his throat apologetically.

“You alright, man? Perhaps a drink, to soothe the burn of her harsh words.”

“It is quite alright, Basilio,” Virion had a far-off look in his eyes. “I daresay that spirits shall hardly aid my tongue, not when hers is so sharp and rapier-fast. As is her wit.” He smoothed his ruff down absentmindedly. “Perhaps I _should_ attempt to drink less. And eat less beef, if I am to attempt to keep up with her pace. Or the lady Olivia’s.”

“That’s nonsense. Rich food for a rich man makes as much sense as anything else. Sully’s always been difficult,” the khan assured him. “You just have to be quick on the draw—sharpen up on your craft if you ever hope to sheathe your sword properly,” Basilio waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“I am an archer,” Virion stated, perplexed.

“Oh, for the love of—you know what? The hour is late. I think it’s best if we all just call it a night.” The muscular man scrubbed his face with an exasperated sigh. He clapped Virion’s back. “Sleep well, friend. We’ve got a long day ahead tomorrow.”

“I bid you both adieu.” Virion tipped his hat to the pair and took his leave amidst the inebriated calls of the Feroxi who had resumed their merrymaking. Keeping watch until the duke disappeared from view, Lon’qu opened the door wordlessly on the chaotic scene that greeted them within. Beer and wine had been spilled and mixed onto the expensive hardwood floor of the foyer. The decorated paneling was defaced by axes in a forgotten game of darts. Portraits of Ylissean nobility long since dead hung askew on the wall, and Sully was struggling to wrestle back an enormous vase from the arms of a burly Feroxi courtier.

“I thought you hated that vase,” the khan was supremely amused at her predicament.

“It ain’t my heirloom to break,” Sully grunted. “Or _hers_.” As soon as she won back the ugly piece of pottery, she was dashing off again to try and establish order over the raucous partygoers. “That’s mahogany, you jackass!” they heard her yell. The woman who had been tugging with her over the vase picked it up from where Sully had placed it and resumed her game of catch with two others in tow.

Sudden movement from above drew Lon’qu’s eyes up to the ceiling. The man perched lazily in the arms of the chandelier slid down cat-like to the floor. His ginger hair and sly face, however, revealed someone far foxier in outlook.

“Evening, Gaius,” Basilio greeted casually.

“Olivia’s been waiting for you.” Gaius was short and quick to the point.

The taller of the two groaned. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“She’s been crying the whole night.”

The simple seriousness of the statement silenced Basilio. It was not something he could excuse himself from.

He sighed. As draining as it was to comfort her during her frequent depressive spells, he was her uncle, after all. He could not leave her in her time of need.

“I’ll be up now.” he said tiredly.

The trio climbed the stairs to the third floor, where the ladies’ apartments were housed. Slipping on spilt liquor was a very real hazard that prompted them to keep their hands on the guardrail at all times. As they neared the top, Sully reached them in record time to scold Gaius.

“Where the hell have you been this whole night?” she hissed angrily into his ear. “It would’ve been real nice to have some help on your end.”

“I’ve been off fighting in the war,” Gaius smirked.

“Ha ha, real funny, Chuckles.”

“It’s my _job_ to be funny, so you could say my work for the day is done.”

She punched him in the arm and he rubbed it with a laugh. “You’re gonna get yourself killed mouthing off one of these days. Maybe _I’ll_ do it. Gods know I’d be doing everyone a favour.”

“Ah, but if you kill me,” the ginger prodded her with utmost relish, “then you won’t be able to scold me for not helping you do _your_ job. And it’ll mean less help babysitting Feroxi drunkards.”

Sully rubbed her temple. “I don’t know why I even bother,” she griped.

Entering the hall where Olivia’s quarters were located took them farther away from the noise. The space was completely dark save for the low-burning sconces set into the wall, with only the eyes from many portraits present and judging them silently. As Basilio reached for the door to his niece’s apartments, the knob opened, with as much reproach as an inanimate object could possess, and Olivia’s steward stepped out with the light of his candelabra illuminating the entrance.

Excellus was, plainly put, a very ugly man. Most had initially attributed his unattractiveness to his being a eunuch. Upon becoming better acquainted with him, his looks were the least of their concerns, inasmuch as it was his awful personality that twisted his broad lips into a perpetual leer. He was nothing short of a Puritan: even the most harmless of pastimes prompted unending castigations on his part. The servants who worked under him lived in terror, fearfully scrubbing and wiping at every available surface lest he come their way with fire on his tongue. Sully and Gaius eagerly awaited the day when he would finally be sent packing and leave everyone to live in peace.

But his housekeeping skills were impeccable, his management of correspondence and money nothing short of a miracle of efficiency; and Basilio owed him a debt, having saved Olivia from certain death. Fantasies of booting him out the door with their own feet would have to wait.

Even so, it did not stop the pair from tormenting him ceaselessly.

“And just where,” his wet toad lips opened in accusation, “have you two been? My lady has been beside herself the entire day...one would think her lady-in-waiting and a jester should be at hand to comfort her when summoned.”

Sully scoffed. “I’ve been downstairs trying to rope in a bunch of baboons. Fat load of good it did trying to call you, so if anything’s been broken by now, I’m not cleaning it up.”

Excellus spluttered indignantly. “That may be, but _this one,_ ” he jabbed his finger at Gaius, “has no excuse.”

“Sure I do,” the ginger grinned. “My services were required elsewhere. I wouldn’t be so rude as to deny our guests entertainment. After all,” he held his finger up to his face in a mockery of Excellus. “I _am_ the jester.”

“B-but your ladyship’s needs override those of lesser folk.” The steward’s face was steadily darkening into a shade of puce the angrier he became.

“Nobody sent for me on her end. Ergo, I had no reason to be up here. Unless you want someone to be on call 24/7, you better just get a dog and whistle for it.”

“ _That’s enough._ ” A soft voice floated floated plaintively to their ears from the dark recesses of their lady’s chambers. “Everyone should just go away. I’ve no want for company now.”

“But you heard Toady here, Babe,” Gaius spoke back into the room from over Excellus’ shoulder. “I should be here to wait on you hand and foot. You sound like you need some cheering up...so I’m comin’ in whether you like it or not.”

“Go away.”

A single ray of light beamed into the lonely sitting room, with not a soul in sight. Lon’qu remained outside with Excellus. Gaius followed the sound of quiet sniffling to the solitary bedroom and invited himself in, paying no mind to the mountains of discarded silks and upended jewellery boxes strewn across the floor as he made his way to the bed, Basilio and Sully close behind.

Olivia lay on her side facing the window. Her long, gorgeous pink curls fanned over her pillow, echoing her peaches and cream complexion. Her dancer’s legs were tangled carelessly within her pristine sheets, with the only acknowledgement of the newcomers being a subtle curl of her toes. Even in the throes of sadness, her loveliness was undeniable.

“What’s the matter, baby?” Gaius kneeled to her eye level and set his hand on her back. She rolled to her other side in response. “You missed the banquet.”

“How sad,” she muttered.

“It was,” Basilio asserted. “A lot of people were asking for you. And I even came back with a gift.”  He retrieved the golden chain from his pocket and set it into her open palm, closing her fingers over it gently. “Pretty, isn’t it? I think it suits your colour.”

She did not even attempt to look at it. “It’s from Chrom.”

Basilio paused. “...Yes,” he admitted after an awkward silence.

“Then I don’t want it.” Olivia flung it uncaringly off her bed. Sully picked it up dutifully and arranged it on the vanity along with a couple of other things off the floor. “If he wants to bribe me, then he should stop sending sending lackeys on his behalf and come do it himself.”

“Livvy.” the khan sat at her bedside and began to rub his niece’s back in slow, soothing strokes. “The boy tries. You can’t fault him for being shy...gods know you’re not such a social butterfly yourself.”

“And we all know Chrom isn’t the problem,” Sully joined in.

“No, but he adds to it.” Olivia’s eyes squeezed out more tears that dripped silently down her face, raw from hours of weeping. “Please...leave me be. I want to suffer in peace.”

“Aw, that’s being too dramatic, even for you, Babe.” Gaius remarked.

“Oh, that’s what you call helping? You—you’re one of the worst offenders.” She sniffled loudly and her body began to tremble with sobs.

“Offending people is my job, sweetheart.” Gaius explained. “But right now I’m just pointing out that you’re being a right fool for crying at a time like this.”

“ _I'm_ the fool? _Your_ job is to be the fool...not barging in and making me feel worse…”

“Sure, you are a fool. Being sad at a banquet is something fools do.”

“So I’m supposed to just forget my problems for a few hours to make merry?”

Gaius nodded. “That’s what poor saps like your uncle do. He’s an expert.”

Olivia narrowed her eyes, unamused, and drew in a shuddering breath. “How clever of you.”

“Thanks, Babe.”

“You are completely missing the point.” She covered her face with a slim hand, hiding herself from view as more tears drew tracks onto her flushed cheeks. “Dressing up, drinking wine, dancing the night away...that was for the days when Sebastian was still here with me. Now...now none of that matters. Those are memories I shared with him, _of_ him...everything just reminds me that he’s gone.”

“Look, you’re not the only one who’s lost somebody—” Sully began. Gaius help his palm up in a silent bid for him to continue. Sully glared at him but gave her permission.

“I get it. You’re still mourning. A lot of us are, too.” Sully scoffed at the words taken right out of her mouth, Gaius ignoring her. “But lemme tell ya something, Babe. Only time I’ve ever seen someone cry so bitterly was when they lost a bet or when they know someone’s been sentenced to eternal damnation.”

“Sebastian is not damned!” Olivia shot upright in bed, her curls in a wild disarray, offended at the very suggestion. “Sebastian was an honourable man. Sebastian gave his life for Regna Ferox and fought at the front lines. He was kind and noble and loved his family and friends.”

Gaius was pleased at her response. “Since he was such a shining example to us lower folk, where would you say he is now?”

Olivia was growing frustrated. “Why, in the heavens of course. The Sky Father promises eternal glory for those who die in combat, and bliss in the afterlife.”

“Sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me. If you say he’s so fine up there, why’re you worrying over him? Seems like he doesn’t need it.”

There was no escaping the ginger’s simple logic. The lady’s mouth opened in a small, surprised ‘o’, unable to formulate a response. She did not usually like conceding arguments to the jester; on this rare occasion, a tiny, wobbly smile upturned her grief-stricken lips.

“You’re right,” she finally admitted. Basilio breathed an audible sigh of relief. “I...I may not be ready just yet to feel better, but...you’re right.” She bowed her head respectfully and held her clasped hands in her lap. “At the very least, I can sleep easier at night, knowing that his afterlife is a happy one.” Sully gave Gaius a thumbs up from behind Olivia.

“Atta girl.”The jester pulled the sheets snugly under her chin and patted her back. “It’s been a long day for everyone, so I think that it’s for the best if we turn in for some shuteye. Sound good?” Olivia nodded and lay back on the mattress.

Sully, Basilio, and Gaius made their way out of her bedroom. Her uncle stood behind in the doorway for a few last words. “Sleep well, princess. You’ve a whole life ahead of you...Sebastian wouldn’t want you punishing yourself over him. So if not for yourself, then try and live a little in his memory. We’re here for you, too.”

They left her with a modicum of peace somewhat restored in their villa. Lon’qu had been waiting patiently with Excellus keeping an ear stuck to the door; the red-haired pair shared an open smirk at his expense.

“Excellus?” Sully called to him. “You better clean her room up and have it ready for the day. The maids are already asleep and Gaius I have have to go downstairs to lasso up some baboons.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'M SO SORRY VIRION)
> 
> It was EXTREMELY difficult to not lift some of Maria's, Toby's, and Andrew's dialogue word for word from No Fear and Shakespeare's own writing; not only is it really funny, it made perfect sense to apply it to Sully, Basilio, and Virion. I would recommend readers take a look at the original text of Twelfth Night and see the Helena Bonham Carter movie (as well as my personal favourite "She's the Man") to compare the scenes and enjoy the hilariously snappy dialogue. I'd also like to take the time to plug the fics of Iturbide, ellisama, rosewarden, arihime, and newmrsdewinter again because they totally deserve more promotion!


	4. Suit the Action to the Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like how the mood in Twelfth Night changes so fast from light-hearted romantic comedy to moments of unsettling cattiness and moody broody protagonists. I hope I did it justice. And this was hard to write in part because it meant hauling ass to my bookshelf (and very dry wikipedia articles) to research what exactly might be discussed at a negotiation table. 
> 
> Robin is also in danger of being very, very screwed...in more ways than one. 
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful Iturbide, ellisama, and newmrsdewinter for putting up with me and being such great sources of inspiration! Please read their fics.

 

 

 

 

Robin’s habit of waking much too early roused her from her uneasy sleep. The servants were still resting within their pallets, but freshly laundered clothes were laid out for her, and her Grimleal robes, still smelling faintly of soap, hung neatly within the dresser. Robin chose a simple chemise and schaube for the day, making sure to straighten out her bedsheets before silently slipping out.

Her guards, Karel and Rood, woke at the sound of the door, following her wordlessly to the castle gates. Gregor was already awake and waiting; they spoke briefly, before sharing a quiet embrace and secretly passing their letters to one another with the unspoken promise to read them later. Watching him ride away into the early morning mist left her heart heavy and leaden with loneliness.

And so she was directed to the main hall for breakfast in that state, staring glumly at her bacon and eggs—not even the extra rashers the cook gave her were any comfort. Chrom was a sympathetic presence, attempting to engage her in conversation, asking of how she slept, was the bed to her liking, were her clothes a proper fit. Robin appreciated his words, she really did, but she could only manage a few grunts of acknowledgement and shakes of her head as she tried to choke down her food. The suspicious glances of his councillors, and the other ambassadors and few others who littered the hall **,** did nothing to ameliorate the anxiety gnawing at her appetite through the pit of her stomach.

Upon concluding breakfast, the morning bell rang to signal the beginning of the day’s activities. Chrom and the assorted company filed in silence out of the hall and into an anteroom connecting the extensive gardens to the castle.

Robin much preferred the arrangement of Chon’sin’s palace gardens, with their cool maple lanes, gleaming river rocks arranged around larger cairns, and peach trees dropping their soft petals into ponds as an audience watched from lacquered bridges. Still, Ylisstol’s castle was not lacking beauty nor grace: the healthy green lawn was awash in dew as heavy mist blanketed the grounds. Neatly trimmed hedges enclosed a maze, and oaks and bushes with young buds guarded the perimeter of the inner walls. Stately beds of irises, the national flower, were arranged in plots of blue and yellow blooms that seemed to bow in deference to them as they walked by in single file.

Robin remembered the Ylissean myth of Naga bringing life to their land with her tears. The seedlings fed by her water grew into irises, and in the Old Tongue, their country was named after the colourful flower. Their branding too was of an iris, drawn in a stylised manner such as to match the image of a torch bearing Naga’s Fire. Chrom’s Mark seemed to burn a brighter blue as she stared back at it on his bared arm.

The small mausoleum was a clean marbled white. It was guarded by the statues of King Marth and Queen Caeda with their weapons held aloft; she with her lance, he with a past version of the Falchion, whose blade now rested in the red scabbard that hung on Chrom’s hip. At the base, in the faded script of the Old Tongue, it read ‘ _For the Good and Glory of All.’_

The prince spoke with the custodian keeping watch over the entrance, a war monk who Robin realised was actually a rather delicate looking man rather than a woman. The pale sunny yellow of his order’s garb was quite the contrast to the gray dawn rising. Chrom shared a few words, thanked him, and ducked under the low overhang of the door. It seemed as though they were not supposed to follow, or at least, not yet. The few moments shared between the envoys outside were tense and uncomfortable.

“Do you think he’d actually try one of his little bloodmouth rituals in there?” the man named Valentine whispered loudly.

“It would be the height of disrespect to do so,” was the scandalised reply of Minister Oswynn.

Robin’s ears burned red. She knew she was disliked. She did not come expecting to be welcomed with open arms. And yet, for them to air their grievances in such a public fashion…

Minister Eschmann said nothing but placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Basilio flanked her left and began discussing inanities such as the poor morning weather. Robin allowed her raised hackles to lower, not entirely at ease, yet somewhat relieved; she could count at least a few allies on her side. The khan was a powerful man who was not easily given to quarrelling and was more than well connected, while Eschmann was a minister of the crown and thus able to exert considerable influence along with his high birth. Basilio, however, could count on his foreign status to protect him from the machinations of Ylissean courtiers...Eschmann could not.

 _When will they turn on him?_ she wondered.

 _They’re grown men. Worry more about yourself,_ the snide voice at the back of her head growled.

“You may now proceed,” the monk said.

The interior of the mausoleum was small, and permeated with an air of antiquity and deep sadness. Down the steps, down below the earth, rested the crypt of King Marth and Queen Caeda, the hands of their tombs joined together even in death. Robin knew that there was a separate burial ground for monarchs outside Ylisstol, yet supposed that this tiny place housed only the most venerable, judging by the fact that Marth was far from the first ruler of his house. However serene the faces on the marble shielding their remains, the slack expressions made a disquieted frisson run down her spine. Like they were somehow able to watch her through their closed eyes.

They continued further below ground, silent visitors to the few other men and women mouldering inside their vaults. The place had been built in such a way that sunlight from the oculus in the domed roof was allowed to penetrate the space with a blinding ray of light, passing through a hole in the floor to keep illuminating whatever it could reach. The stairs leading them down each successive level curved around the wall and the tombs with no rail to keep anyone from falling—the trip was made with everyone sticking closely to the wall.

At the very lowest level was Chrom, head bowed, hands clasped over the Falchion’s pommel as he knelt before Emmeryn’s grave. Great care had been taken in shaping her effigy. Her curls were arranged in a halo around her face, her Brand delicately carved into her forehead. With her hands held loosely over her heart and a peaceful smile playing about her lips, it was almost as though she was merely asleep, with the figure of her loyal knight Phila resting at her feet.

It was a sight that was uncomfortably underscored by how badly damaged their bodies were upon returning to Ylisse.

The monk from outside had now joined them and supplied censers for himself and Kospa to light. Sweet incense filled the room as the assembled company tried to make way for the clergymen to circle the effigy in prayer, cramped as it was with so many people in such a tiny space. When they were done everyone came forward to pay their respects and ask her to bless them and the proceedings: first the Ylisseans, then the Feroxi, then the Rosannois and Valmese.

As the only Plegian, all eyes then turned to her.

Nerve wracking? Yes. Everything and anything she would do was up for scrutiny and criticism. But there was protocol, there were customs and conventions to follow. No matter how ill they would speak of her, Robin would pay Emmeryn her dues and honour her.

She slid down to one knee and arranged her schaube around her carefully; Robin placed a hand on Emmeryn’s marble foot, and wryly noted that the stone almost matched her skin colour. Taking a deep breath, she recited the familiar words:

_“Blessed be the Six-Eyes, may He continue to See beyond us for as long as our blood walks this earth.”_

Shocked susurrations swept throughout the crypt at the mention of Grima. She forced herself to ignore them.

_“May He See this soul and witness it, May He shelter it within the cover of His wings so that it may safely ascend to those Exalted spheres beyond the boundary, and be laid to peaceful rest. For this we give our blessings.”_

And with all being said and done, Robin brought her thumb to her mouth, pricked it with her sharp teeth, and pressed a little dot of blood to the stone.

The uproar was almost immediate, yet was swiftly put down as Chrom sprang to his feet with a shout. “SILENCE!”

His councillors had the decency to look shamed; however deep their offense towards Grima’s faith ran, it was no excuse to start a brawl upon the grave of their previous exalt, and their indecorous behaviour marked a poor start for the day. Chrom himself was shaking with undisguised rage.

“We give our thanks,” his voice fought to maintain a semblance of control, “for your presence, and for your blessings. We hope that they reach Naga’s and Emmeryn’s ears and they find it fit to smile upon us this day.”

“Hear hear,” was the disgruntled murmur.

“Your Highness,” hierarch Kospa hastened to Chrom’s side.

The monk bade the rest to take their leave as Chrom spoke to the minister. When Robin made to join them, the prince’s arm suddenly shot out and held her hand in a firm grip. She arched her brows but said nothing at his grimace.

“Please leave us,” Chrom asked the clergymen. Robin noticed the monk surreptitiously trying to wipe the spot of blood off Emmeryn’s foot before climbing up the stairs with the hierarch. The cloying scent of incense lingered, and she was reminded that she was alone with the prince and the remains of his sister and her knight.

_What an awful start of the day this is turning out to be..._

He turned pleading eyes to her. “I’m sorry—”

She stopped him mid sentence. “I’ve a feeling you will be apologising many times over soon. Please...save your breath.”

Her words were not unkind. And yet, Chrom looked as haggard and tired as any man who had not slept in many days. And they were not yet even through with the first day.

After a long silence spent staring into each other’s eyes, he broke contact and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. “...I believe they are waiting for us,” he sighed. Chrom slung an arm over Robin’s shoulders as they ascended the marble stairs, feeling increasingly tired with each step they took.

Not yet seated at the negotiating table and already she was at the centre of a dispute. It was going to be a very long day indeed.

The sun, which had risen fully by the time of their exit and burned off the morning mist, briefly blinded them with its brilliance. Frederick was not dressed in the full suit of armour he wore the previous day, yet he shone in livery sporting Chrom’s deep blue colours. The effect was ruined by his scowl upon seeing the pair arm in arm, so Robin gently removed Chrom’s hand from her shoulder. They were surrounded by Pegasus Knights; Ylisse’s company of elite soldiers, traditional guardians of the Exalt since the times of Queen Caeda. Their leader, a stunning redhead Robin recognised from the battlefield, wore the pale blue uniform that previously belonged to Phila.

“Formation, ladies!” she ordered. The knights under her command snapped to attention and formed a circle around the ambassadors. The captain stationed herself at Chrom and Frederick’s side and, with a loud, short whistle, they all began moving forward as a single unit.

The day was late enough in that it meant several courtiers were now out and about, giving their daily rounds throughout the enormous gardens. They (along with several gardeners, servants, and guards) stared openly at the procession as it was led past the fountain, past the flowering bushes planted by the arcade, and into the castle keep. As much as Robin would have liked to examine the gorgeous stone flooring more closely, she was swept up by the pace of the men surrounding her.

Two knights detached themselves to open the massive oak doors; they stayed behind, while the ambassadors were all ushered in along with the knights’ captain, and the doors sealed shut with a loud groan.

And thus the feeling of urgency turned to one of dread.

  


 

* * *

 

The council room was a handsomely appointed space dominated by the enormous, darkly stained beechwood table that ran the length of the room. A sumptuous crimson carpet —a kilim of Plegian make, Robin noted— rested underfoot. It echoed the tapestry that depicted Naga and her champions slaying Grima and Medeus and the Plegians that were crushed beneath the weight of the dragons. On the opposite side, a lovingly painted portrait of Emmeryn rested snugly between the wooden paneling.

Robin was sure that the seating arrangements were intentionally prepared so as not to place her next to the other members of Chrom’s cabinet: to her left sat Eschmann, whose round belly poked her elbow every time he breathed; to her right, Basilio and the Feroxi who served under him. Chrom himself sat at the head of the table, with a minister at each side helping him arrange his voluminous blue ermine cape into his chair. With his gold and midnight blue jerkin, golden stole and girdle, and the circlet resting on his Oxford blue hair, he looked every bit the prince that he was.

A few minutes of small talk were shared. Chrom bade everyone to sit down with a bang of his gavel. “Now then,” he cleared his throat. “First is roll call. Cordelia, if you please.”

The Pegasus Knight captain ( _Cordelia,_ Robin reminded herself) produced a long roll of parchment that she passed on dutifully to Chrom, who signed it first in the common script, then with his cursive signature before passing it along counter-clockwise amongst his privy council. Robin was the last to sign, and allowed herself a quick peek at the rows of names before signing it herself:

 

_YLISSE:_

_Chrom Aidan Murtagh_

_Anton Kospa_

_Tobias Falstaff_

_Sionúir Ó Fearghial_

_Fabian Trengrouse_

_Balthair Urquhart_

_Pherick Oswynn_

_Daveth Valentine_

_Harald Eschmann_

_Frederick Armstrong_

 

_REGNA FEROX:_

_Basilio Antonius Aquilius_

_Lon’qu_

_Maor Khalili_

_Roshea Dianthos_

_Arian Gonzaga-Foscari_

_Miloah di Nigris_

 

_ROSANNE:_

_Henri Viaur_

_Ghislain du Berry_

_Celice du Berry_

_Alpine du Berry_

_Mycen Almstadt_

_Clive Bertrand_

 

_VALM:_

_Pheros Milen_

_Egídio Cervantes_

_Ignatius de Loyola_

_Farber Hafen_

_Dalton Fortier-Sachs_

_Camus Rudolf_

 

Hers was the only Plegian name in the roster. While Robin was not illiterate, reading and writing were not prioritised on the same level as game theory, war simulations, and combat practice; she felt very ashamed of her chicken-scratch signature compared to the fanciful curlicues adorning the rest of the page, particularly from the Rosannois.

She supposed that, judging from what she felt was a checking spell on the parchment, roll call was also a way to root out impostors should they attempt to gain access to them. Frederick was allowed a say in the proceedings given his position as Chrom’s lieutenant general. Odd that, as the only woman in the room, Cordelia’s signature was not present, but Robin realised it was most likely due to her merely acting as a guard. In any case, the amount of wards and muffling spells placed on the room would not be very effective as some would mostly likely discuss the events outside the place anyways.

“Now that’s out of the way then,” Chrom said as the mild hubbub died down. “We can get down to business. The first call to that business, however, would be defining it in the first place. What is that we seek to accomplish beyond a vague idea of peace treaty?” His quill was poised over a clean sheet of parchment. “Any ideas?”

A bearish looking councilman’s arm shot up immediately. “Reconstruction and redevelopment of cropland.”

“Oh, that’s a good one.” Everyone jotted it down in their notes. “Yes, the fields are looking worse for wear...and we still have to decide upon a distribution plan for grain...thank you, Fabian.” The councilman lowered his arm, satisfied. Chrom looked around expectantly. “Anyone else?”

Minister Kospa raised his hand delicately. “I assume general aid and reconstruction efforts will be included?”

“Yes, Hierarch.” Robin placed the first point under the second, making sure to title the latter in a larger font.

A young red haired Rosannois volunteered his opinion. “Port reconstruction? Trade across the sea needs to be resumed should Ylisse be in want of silks and such.”

“I believe that goes under the previous point, son,” du Berry said.

“Oh.”

“If I may,” Falstaff interjected. “The issue of compensation was bound to come up in the discussion...shall it be negotiated as part of general reconstruction? Or even as a separate topic, given its scope.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the assembly. In spite of the luxuries surrounding them and clothing them, finances were a delicate topic, moreso given the unspoken expectation that _some_ ought to pay more than the others. Nevermind the fact that there was little guarantee of transparency in how those funds would be used…or whether even acquiescence to payment would encourage others to demand more.

Or worse: who would stop them from getting what they wanted?

As it was, the Rosannois were eyeing the Valmese cooly. Robin fought the urge to shrink in her seat as Falstaff looked at her from the corner of his eye. Others were not nearly as subtle in their staring.

Chrom was not ignorant to the tense atmosphere. “Duly noted. It shall be revisited once we’ve agreed on the other points of discussion.” Disgruntled murmurs followed to the tune of scratching quills.

“Now that we’ve broached the topic of compensation, I assume that we should also be discussing the application of the law,” du Berry said. “Bandits roaming the land, entire cities that have gone rogue and refuse to submit to authority…”

“Criminals that need to be punished,” Minister Valentine smirked.

Chrom cleared his throat loudly. “Restoration of rule of law to be added to the record, with the mentioned sub points,” he declared tersely. “Any objections?”

“None,” was the unanimous reply. Chrom looked carefully to Robin for a few seconds before turning away. “Any more points to be added before tabling this part of the session?”

Another long silence stretched out uncomfortably.

“Any at all?”

The Chon’sinese man sitting to Basilio’s right raised his hand. “I don’t know if this could be added to the previous point. However, we’ve encountered an unsettling number of Valmese,” the distinctive feeling of hackles being raised made the hairs on Robin’s neck prickle, “who even deny that there is responsibility to be raised on their part.”

“What are you suggesting?” Pheros asked cooly.

“That there should be action taken against evading an issue.” Lon’qu met his gaze head-on.

“And who might these ‘unsettling number of Valmese’ be, since they are of such concern?”

“Merchants. Sailors. The expatriates who populate our port cities to the west. We don’t take kindly to people enjoying the benefits of the state and then turning around to stab us in the back.”

There was a loud screech of chairs being pushed back as the Valmese delegation rose to their feet. “How _dare_ —”

“Wait, wait, if Ferox is prepared to do this, then surely we may be allowed to do the same to the Plegians?” Minister Oswynn wrung his hands and looked to Falstaff for support.

Now it was Robin’s turn to feel anger heating her skin. “You—”

“And who is to determine who is to shoulder the blame?” Cervantes, an ambassador with an impressive beard bellowed, despite being a tad unintelligible through his hair. “Are we to place innocent children and families on the same level as a unit of infantry?”

“That is superbly rich, coming from a _turncoat_ such as yourself!” Clive shouted back.

“What of the Plegians?” Oswynn panted hysterically.

The loud crack of the gavel was heard crystal clear over the shouting. The arguing died upon witnessing Chrom and Frederick on their feet: the latter with his lips pressed impossibly thin and his nostrils flaring, dangerously quiet; the former very red in the face and a vein pulsing in his forehead, hummingbird-quick.

“Sit down,” Chrom said.

They all did as asked. Many a man glanced warily at the gavel, whose handle was splintered and broken within Chrom’s grasp.

The prince measured his words and tone carefully. “I can see that we have a sensitive topic on our hands. Now, precisely because accountability should be a goal to strive for, I do not think most would have a problem with including it in the agreement—” he was interrupted briefly by a few protesting ambassadors. Frederick’s glower shut them up. “ _However._ Should anyone try to abuse it for the sake of settling some personal score or vendetta...then I will _personally_ ensure that the petitioner will be unable to enforce its application.”

Silence.

“Any objections or additions?”

None.

“Good.” Chrom sighed wearily and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I will call a recess. For dinner.” He banged the remains of the gavel on the table and made sure that everyone had taken their notes with them before exiting the room himself.

As they were still sequestered from the rest of the castle’s inhabitants, their meal took place in an adjoining hall reserved exclusively for their use. Judging from the fact that the kitchens had access to it, Robin deduced that they most likely served as a sort of central hub for the castle in addition to the throne room. In Plegia as in Ylisse the largest meal of the day was supper; yet here, she was still baffled as to the custom of organising a meal through courses, and while the country was certainly more amenable to the growth of fresh fruit and vegetables, the rich seemed determined to eat as much meat and dairy as they could muster.

The cook winked at Robin as she cut thick slices of smoked ham for Chrom and the rest, along with little puddings and roasted leeks. The pantler brought them great big loaves of rich white bread, and today most enjoyed cider brought out from the winter barrels to drink, with Robin quickly deciding that she rather liked the taste. She was carefully going over her notes as she munched on her sixth piece of buttered bread and decided to rewrite what she remembered of negotiation charts, if only to have a reference she could consult later.

To summarise: Ylisseans favoured a non-confrontational approach. Brief small talk opened up the business proposal, which was usually couched in vague, coded terms so as not to offend...and to conceal certain intentions. Resistance and deadlocks were usually bypassed by each party wearing each other down through stalling and understatements, after which a recess was declared. Having come to an understanding afterwards, proposals were repackaged in a way that might hold mutual appeal, and points previously agreed upon were restated. Strangely enough, the decisions were made at the following sessions. Robin supposed it was a way to hold others to their words. With a society as clannish and zealously protective of public image as the Ylisseans, she could see why it had developed so.

With the Feroxi **,** all arguments used to be settled with deciding whoever was best at bashing skulls in. War as a tiebreaker was an increasingly archaic model that was losing favour now that politicians were expected to show up to a negotiating table rather than an arena. However, their approach was straightforward, open, and often blunt. Not to say that Feroxi were incapable of keeping their secrets, but simply that honesty, however crude, was preferred. Confrontation was often deliberately provoked to force people to defend their goals and speaking points.

Now, the Rosannois model was just as verbose, if not more, than the Ylissean one, with the speakers expected to show passion and emotion in support of their stances: language, they said, was just as much an instrument of eloquence as it was reason. Appeals to logic would be expected, as would they be to emotion and the use of plenty of hypotheticals. Thankfully, they did not negotiate in such guarded terms as the Ylisseans: they would expect a conclusion to be reached at the end of a session and they would favour a clear majority of opinion, even if they had to bully others to achieve it.

The Valmese...were a bit of a mystery, to be honest. Her tutors were well travelled **,** but the subject of Valmese dialogue and etiquette seemingly eluded them. She had hardly come into contact with any before the summit, much less heard that much about them until the war. That, and she had only visited the continent of Valm once; but that was to Chon’sin, and many dynasts were not too keen on being labeled as Valmese.

Thinking of Chon’sin made her heart hurt. It reminded her of peace, of actually having time to be idle and at rest. Of Say’ri. Of the last time she shared happiness with Daraen before the storm.

“Are you alright?”

Chrom’s voice jolted Robin out of her moping and almost made her drop her bread in surprise. “I—I’m f-f-fine.” Gods, she sounded like an idiot. “Just thinking about the conference.”

“I can see that,” he said warmly. He reached directly into her space to spread out her notes. She hated whenever anyone else did that —foreign hands could disorganise them or _worse_ — but kept mum as Chrom pored over them. There was no harm in it, even if she would have preferred he ask beforehand.

“These are all yours? Wow. If I’m ever to get a hold on this whole ruling thing, I should learn to take notes like yours.”

Robin flushed unbidden under such praise. “Copying is bad,” she tried to joke.

“It’s not copying if you let me. And besides, the teacher isn’t around to scold us,” he winked.

Was it her, or did the room suddenly become warmer? “Studying would actually put something in that big head of yours.”

Chrom laughed a deep belly-laugh, attracting the attention of the several other men who were not already staring at them before, and his laugh tapered off awkwardly. 

“Prince Daraen’s notes are rather good,” Chrom muttered lamely and scratched his neck.   

“We are always more than happy to provide Your Highness with our own,” Falstaff smiled curtly at Robin.

“Thank you.”

Having finished eating, the table was voided with crackers and ale. Robin briefly eavesdropped on the youngest of du Berry’s sons expressing his surprise that there were only three meal courses as opposed to the usual twelve. When du Berry explained it was the result of rationing, Robin had to fight back a snort.

The food seemed to have improved the mood somewhat upon the return to the council room. There was glaring, there was whispering, but thankfully, no one decided to start shouting or throwing things. A new gavel (courtesy of Frederick) was procured for Chrom and he banged it to signal that the meeting had resumed.

“Hopefully everyone is feeling refreshed and in much better spirits.” Chrom’s cheer was obviously forced.

Mutters of assent were mixed in with the sounds of parchment and quills being readied.

“Good. The previous points will be restated. Anyone voicing misgivings, objections, or general questions should say their piece now.”

A Feroxi delegate, Miloah, raised his hand. “So the point on accountability shall be included in the final draft?”

Chrom paused. He was still deciding how to phrase it delicately enough to avoid another row.

It would not do for another argument to flare up—Robin could see him visibly struggling. She took pity on him and decided to bear the loaded question in his stead.   

“I don’t think it’s necessarily the point itself that is the cause of contention,” she said carefully, “as long as there is a guarantee that it will not be abused as a form of punishment. After all, the goal is to create a peace treaty. There shouldn’t be any problems when the agreement is mutually beneficial.”

With her phrasing, there was absolutely no way that any qualms against it would be seen as reasonable, and she allowed herself to feel very satisfied when she saw the same conclusion dawn upon delegates such as Oswynn and Falstaff.

Chrom shot her a brief, grateful look. “Thank you for your input, Daraen. Would anyone else like to add to that?”

Either everyone was satisfied by the terms she laid out, or no one could come up with anything else to say, given the silence; some seemingly gave up as several “no’s” were spoken.

“Alright. That’s the last point then: our focus should then be placed on general reconstruction, compensation, and restoration of order. Look how well we’re getting along; only the first day and already we’ve been able to come to an agreeance.”

Chrom’s joke was not the best one, but his effort was appreciated and the laughs genuine.

“Anything else might be too derivative of the previous or might even be quite a bit too much. I suggest we keep the list to those, and anything else written under them.” The eldest of du Berry’s sons, a stern green-haired young man, spoke.

“I concur,” Eschmann replied.

“Well then. Seeing as we have two separate agreements...I believe that your reasoning is sound enough. Would anyone else like to add a separate clause to this treaty? Please, speak up now, or else hold your tongue in the future.” Chrom said.

A soft-spoken chorus of “no’s” rose. Satisfied, the prince banged his gavel twice. “Then that concludes the delineation of topics. Let the record reflect that.” The silent scribes posted in the corner scribbled his words hurriedly.

“That’s all very well now, but we’d like to know _what_ exactly is it that we’re gonna talk about first.” Basilio took a hearty swig from his goblet. “And we wanna know what exactly the budget is going to look like.”

Oooh no. Talk of money so early in the game was going to rile someone up—

“Seeing as our coffers are far from overflowing, I propose some of the costs be offset with compensation payments. Surely Walhart would be as magnanimous as to extend that gesture to us?” du Berry suggested.

“Perhaps we would consider finances should you be clearer in delineating what is it exactly that you expect us to pay for,” Pheros stated coldly.

“Do not play coy us with, General.”

“Unless we have a guarantee of obtaining something in return, then your assertions are not even worth a half-pence.”

“After the devastation you have wreaked upon our land and our people, you _dare_ to suggest we owe _you_ something?”

“Gentlemen—” Chrom warned.

“He’s right,”· Basilio added. “There’s no way we can come up with the goods since _their_ ships torched Port Ferox. Unless they start rebuilding those ports themselves, or at least pay us enough for it, then Valm doesn’t have a leg to stand on!”

“But why rely on Valm when Plegia possesses the fabled Morian Mines?” Oswynn again. Robin knew that his faction was vocally anti-Plegian, but broadcasting his intentions so openly at the table was foolish at best. “Bards and mages have spoken of rubies, lapis, gold and silver and sapphires and diamonds brought up from the depths of the earth, gems the size of a man’s head and nuggets as large as a dog. Think of all the grain we could purchase, all the houses we could repair with but a single ingot from there!”

Robin fought the urge to roll her eyes. Of all the silly myths to exist, that one seemed to have captured the imagination of particular Ylisseans. “We would be happy to discuss a payment plan, Minister, should those mines even exist in the first place.” Oswynn spluttered and blanched at her.

“Well, since you are so eager to discuss monetary issues, then we are happy to count with your cooperation.” Valentine’s tone was measured but the threat behind his words was poorly disguised.

Cervantes pounced on them, to Valentine’s delight. “Well! If Plegia is so willing, then why not extend the offer to us as well?”

 _Seriously?_ Robin mentally groaned. Now was the time to be more assertive, she guessed. “Why should Plegia owe anything to Valm when we have not engaged neither as enemies nor allies?”

“I say—!”

Chrom’s increasingly loud calls to order and the banging of his gavel went ignored.

A tall, thin man with sky-blue hair pushed his seat back and extended his hands out in a placating gesture. “Now, now, we would all be much more productive should we calm ourselves down and speak in a civilised manner—”

Du Berry gave him a scathing look. “Virion, you are in no position to speak on the matter.”

The loud crack of splintered wood silenced them all rather quickly. Chrom had brought the gavel down upon the table with such force that an entire section had been sheared off, with only a few remnants of splinters connecting the table to the broken piece that rested at the prince’s feet. He was sweating in his ermine and the throbbing of his vein had returned, stronger this time, as he struggled not to choke.

“Absolutely _shameful,_ ” he finally ground out. “Barely the first day, and we already have had two arguments—no, not even two.” He sighed and rubbed his nose. “This speaks poorly of us. We are here to discuss a _peace treaty,_ and yet you all seem too eager to start at each other’s throats. What’s the matter with you all? Hasn’t anyone learned anything? Doesn’t anyone _care?”_   

At least they all had the decency to look shame-faced. Robin herself felt deeply for Chrom. She did not want to cause any trouble and yet she let herself be carried away by her emotions and be provoked.

“I’m sorry,” Robin apologised. “It was wrong of me. I let my feelings get the best of me.”

Valentine was smug at her admission. Chrom gave her a sympathetic look and shook his head. “Please. At the moment, you are the _least_ of my problems.” Valentine’s smile dropped like a dead fly.

Everyone else seemed to have caught on and they too offered their apologies—Chrom raised his palm up tiredly.

“Frederick, what hour does the clock strike?”

Frederick turned his head to face the timepiece on the wall (a curious contraption with numerals Robin did not know how to read), frowned, and turned to the prince. “Exactly six, milord.”

Chrom swore under his breath. “Gentlemen, we are clearly not going to get anywhere farther today...and we’re all late for supper. By the next session, I expect us all to make an actual effort and be on our best behaviour.”

“Same hour tomorrow?” Clive asked.

“No. The day after. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I didn’t say anything about the scheduling—the day after a session is a free day, to strategise, and so I may have the freedom to attend my audiences. Then the next day we meet again, and the day after is a free day once more...are we all clear on that?”   

“Yes.”

“I motion to adjourn this meeting.”

Supper was held in the Great Hall this time, with Lissa and Ricken joining them all at the high table and the princess entertaining everyone with her humorous anecdotes and infectious cheer. Robin picked moodily at her chicken leg instead of conversing. There was a lot to plan for the day after tomorrow, and she was not looking forward to all the diagrams and matrices and simulations she would have to set up. It would mean a long night of scribbling away well after the fire in the hearth would have been banked down…

“Daraen?” Lissa was waving her hand in his face. “Everything alright?”

Robin blinked owlishly. “Y-yeah. Sorry, I wasn’t really paying attention…”

“That’s alright. Sometimes I do it too. But lately Chrom’s been mooning around all the time, so really, you’re not the biggest daydreamer in here.” she tore into her bread and rolled her eyes at Chrom; her brother was again lost in thought to the tune of the lyre and of bards singing of unrequited love.

Robin raised an eyebrow, then returned to her food. It had been a long day; she did not begrudge the prince his hobbies or however he preferred to relax.

But staying in a mood would not help her own humours. However awkward socialising was, it would not hurt to indulge the princess and be friendly.

She turned to Lissa after gulping down a mouthful of chicken. “I like your hairpiece.” Robin pointed to a strange, but rather whimsical cap made of lace, large white buttons, and a golden cord that held the components together.

Robin scolded herself mentally; Frederick’s etiquette manuals had mentioned that pointing was in poor taste, but Lissa did not seem to mind and touched the buttons absently. “Oh...my Owain made it,” a fond smile adorned her face. “‘Course, he’s not old enough to sew yet, so most of it was really me—but he picked the materials! And he told me how he wanted it to look.”

“You have a son?”

“Yeah. He’s my sweet little guy.”

“He turns four in the summer.” Ricken turned from his conversation with his father to join them. “He’s rambunctious and feisty and loves playing with his toy sword.”

Eschmann smiled at the mention of his grandson. “He named it ‘dastard-whacker.’ Wherever he got such a name, I don’t think I shall know soon.”

The conversation soon became easy and relaxed for her, hearing about Owain and his adventures with his friends Brady and Cynthia and Lissa’s family and castle life. Robin was grateful that it did not turn to her or her own family. Perhaps they sensed her unease, but whatever it was, they never questioned her on it, and she was grateful.  

However long and arduous the days turned, she hoped that she could at least enjoy nights and company like this.

  


* * *

 

 

_How dare he._

He sat on the other side of the table, sandwiched between the princess Lissa and Eschmann’s boy, Ricken. They were talking of their son Owain; laughing, sharing stories, offering up pieces of their happiness to him.

That filthy Plegian had no right to it.

Oh, he had heard things about that young man. That his mother was a witch who poisoned wells and spat frogs out of her mouth along with her words...that _father_ of his was another matter entirely. That he spoke to the moon at midnight and offered blood and severed eyes, roasted upon a pyre of myrtle and myrrh.

That fell blood ran through his veins and marked his skin with proof of his sin just as Naga’s purity and godliness marked Chrom’s.

All that evil suffusing his very being, all that wickedness, and he dared to sully the late Emmeryn’s grave with his dirty, fouled blood.

_He. had. no. right._

He excused himself after supper to take his usual night walk. The fountain’s gurgling and the scent of the irises soothed him, yet it was not enough to take his mind off his turmoil. Should he go to the Lady Margaret to request a sleeping aid? Another round by the lawn?

He would have rather gone to the mausoleum and begged forgiveness from Emmeryn, forgiveness for her death and the indignity of having her tomb _desecrated_ by dirty blood and a prayer offered to Grima. But it was locked now, and visiting Her Grace would have only worsened the pain in his heart. Empty words that would have no effect on the evil now lurking within the castle.

_But he had to do something._

“Whatever seems to be the matter?”

Who said that? He jumped in alarm, searching for that knowing, sibilant voice, terrified of an assassin waiting in the wings, or worse, _him._ Oh, it was foolish of him to insist on taking his walks alone!

“Who’s there?” His voice quavered and he hated how obvious his fear was. “Show yourself!”

A low chuckle emerged from the shadows, along with a body: first a hose covered leg, then a torso, and a grinning, canny face followed. A tome rested within the person’s arms, while a carefully lacquered nail tapped out a steady, thoughtful rhythm on its cover.

“You need not feel frightened.” And yet he did feel frightened, as he was circled and assessed the way he had seen the castle cats do with the birds that foolishly wandered into their paths. Like he was a piece of meat to be snatched up and swallowed. “Your state of lament is obvious even at a glance...perhaps I can do something to remedy that.”

He was...receiving an _offer_ from this stranger?

 _No,_ he told himself. Pacts made in the dark of the night were for the dishonourable and the heretical. The night was when evil spirits such as witches and wraiths and ghosts gathered to talk. The night was when Plegians danced to the moon and offered up their bloody sacrifices, when assassins and thieves made their moves.

“I...you have nothing that could possibly interest me. Leave me be!” he gathered his robes close to his body and made to return to the keep.

“Not even a way to get rid of that Plegian?”

He stopped dead in his tracks.

_How could he possibly know…?_

“It’s obvious, even from afar.” He jumped when he heard that voice so close to his ear. “Having to share the same space with his ilk...how _degrading._ But please, save your worries. I can help you. I can make sure his presence never dirties the hallowed grounds you step on...as long as you listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Know that twisted feeling you get as a writer when your beta screams at you? Sorry, Iturbide; but that cliffhanger was practically BEGGING me to write it! 
> 
> Research for this chapter meant that if I was going to plot out this universe that had allusions to anything and everything from Italian Renaissance names to what a royal effigy looks like, I had to actually...go and do the research, which was fun but extremely tedious at the same time; luckily most of it was stuff that I'd already compiled way back in '14, so most of this chapter was actually me stressing over how to write it. 
> 
> Thankfully, next chapter won't be as gloomy! Until next time.


	5. Flights of Fancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Iturbide for the mutual screaming over the editing process--please go read her fics!

 

 

 

Robin woke blearily to the sight of Mary’s smiling, wrinkled face; she had somehow risen earlier, having laid out a clean set of clothes and warmed up the hearth all by herself. The rest of the servants were already stirring in their pallets.

“Milord has requested Your Highness for breakfast,” she said.

Robin was in a much better mood than the previous day, slurping down her porridge and gnawing away at her plate of cow’s trotters and kidney pie, ignoring the distinctly hairy eyeball the other advisors were giving her over the rims of their cups. She had gone to sleep feeling buoyed and refreshed over her conversation with princess Lissa and her family—and while Robin maintained her unhealthy habit of staying up later than necessary whilst slaving over her notes and diagrams, Lissa’s cheery anecdotes of her son and castle life managed to stave off her night time anxiety and the nightmares that usually followed. A single, stress-free night proved most beneficial to her sleep, and it showed. Chrom grinned at her over his pie and she rolled her eyes upon noticing gravy had dribbled down his lip.

“You are all welcome to sit in on my audiences if you like,” Chrom announced after the table was voided. “I would kindly ask you to refrain from complaints or suggestions because I have enough at the moment.” Basilio roared with laughter.

Like the previous day, Chrom was dressed in full state attire, the difference that he had traded in his circlet for the headpiece Emmeryn used to wear. It was crafted in the shape of the iris Brand, but its resemblance to a halo was not lost on Robin. It was not as resplendent as she had remembered it, now that it was dented and scuffed...and one of the last physical remnants of Exalt Emmeryn. Yet poor Chrom still wore it with as much ease and grace as he could muster, and shouldered on with a smile as wave after wave of supplicants, nobles and peasants alike, approached his throne on the dais with their requests.

The petitions of nobility ranged from the reasonable to the insultingly frivolous: a duchess requested men to guard her property, fearful of a Plegian incursion as she lived so close to the border; a merchant with close ties to the duchy of Themis wanted compensation for his stolen flocks of sheep; the daughter of a minor lord had decided that her family’s feud with their neighbours was to be continued and asked for military reinforcements to push the supposed intruders off their own land.

The state of the commoners was far more depressing. Each petition was a variation of asking for more food, more water, protection from roving bands of Plegian rogues, and if the army had been able to locate those family members or friends who had gone missing or died on the frontlines. Despite the stark contrast between the costly damascened velvet of a baron’s waistcoat with the greying rags worn by a humble washerwoman, almost all shared that same underlying look of deep loathing and fear whenever their eyes set upon Robin.

She wondered why Chrom even bothered to invite her to sit in at all. She could see the use of having the other envoys, to show them how audiences were directed in Ylisse (Robin saw du Berry carefully whispering in his son’s ears as they watched the proceedings), and to stir some sympathy for the Ylissean citizenry, if only to speed up the negotiation process. Yet her presence was clearly making others very uncomfortable, and amplified her feelings of isolation.

Would Daraen have felt that way if he were sitting there, in his rightful place? Would being here have helped him learn how to run his kingdom from his future throne?

 _Would he spend his time moping like you do?_ that voice sneered.

Mercifully, Chrom called a recess to stroll around the castle before dinner, and invited them all to join him. Again, Robin missed the elegance of Chon’sin, yet was struck by the well kept grounds and the remarkable craftsmanship that had gone into building the place. She would often run a hand over the stonework of the columns or catch herself surveying the pretty stained glass fitted into a few windows.

“I can’t believe that I haven’t shown you around yet,” Chrom noticed her close attention to the castle architecture and pulled her aside. “Would you like that, Daraen? I know your stay has been short so far, but it’d be useful if you could navigate around here yourself.”

“Look how cozy you two are!” Basilio’s loud japing made the pair hyper aware of their close embrace, and they quickly separated. All the men were staring at them. “Wish I got special treatment like that. And we’ve been friends for longer, too! You wound me, _milord Chrom.”_

Robin’s sickly white skin made her flush all the more obvious, but it was Chrom’s stammer that drew attention. “H-he doesn’t really know his way around yet—what are you even complaining for? You know this place like the back of your hand!”

“Well, I’d certainly be happy enough to take the kid off _your_ hands.”

“The—Basilio, what?”

The enormous Feroxi laughed and clapped Chrom’s back so hard the man practically bounced off Basilio’s hand. “Kidding, kidding. You’re so easy to rile up! Learn to relax a little.”

Chrom’s splutter was heard clearly over the awkward laughter of the others, who had never really grown accustomed to Basilio’s particular brand of humour. At the very least he was attempting to be friendly.

“Anyways,” Chrom said, “it’s early enough that I think we can start with the view. Would anyone else care to join us?”

His advisors declined; a few Feroxi and Valmese, as well as the du Berry twins, agreed. Frederick was coming regardless. They all entered a tower and climbed up the long, winding stairs, greeting the few soldiers and arbalists on guard before the ramparts’ walkways opened up to them.

The view was magnificent even from the keep. The entirety of Ylisstol seemed to stretch out before them on all sides and in all its glory: Robin could see the tiny figures of people bustling about before the majestic cathedral; horses and carriages made their way from the city square up the bridge connecting the castle to the city and back again; the din of the market and various pubs and alehouses, now in their dinner rush, added to the cacophony of smithies and guild houses at work. Dockhands unloaded wares from the boats carrying goods from downriver to the tune of music floating out of the magnificent playhouse on the riverbanks. At Ylisstol’s very edge, blue-gray smoke from the tanners and the kilns hung languidly in the sky, with flocks of starlings twisting and turning in the air like great black ribbons.

It was very different from anything she had seen in Plegia, Regna Ferox, or Chon’sin, yet possessed the same sense of grandeur that the world seen from above usually does. Robin remembered her panicked entry to Ylisstol but a few days ago. What a difference it was! Her urgency left her with only a vague, blurry recollection of people and stonework flying by on horseback; here at the top of the castle keep was a clear, sprawling rendering of earth toned buildings and the green forests surrounding the enormous city.

Chrom noticed how raptly she focused her attention on the view and allowed himself to preen, proud that Robin was appreciative. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Very. You’re a lucky man, to have all this.”

“Well, I should hope that I’m worthy enough of it.”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “Humility, in a prince? I thought that only existed in fairy tales.”

Chrom laughed. He shoved Robin lightly. “If I’m such a rarity, does that mean you’re selfish and cruel? Since you’re so realistic.”

She paused. Robin knew what banter was, but with men it was a strange, complicated ritual that Gregor said needed to be supplemented with roughhousing and sometimes even fighting. She had seen others go at it; why, she even had Daraen as a reference, but he was a sensitive boy who shied away from such contact. Did that mean she needed to punch Chrom back?

So she did, trying to put in a reasonable amount of force in her fist without hurting him. “Who’s calling who selfish and cruel? I bet you’ve got a few flaws, _Your Majesty_.”

“I was kidding! You’re much too humble for your own good. If anything, _you’re_ the storybook character here.”

“Oh, so first I’m mean, now I’m ‘too humble?’ Sounds like you’re trying to insult me.”

“Hey, don’t try to twist my words!”

And so they went at it, trading quips and increasingly hard blows back and forth until it basically evolved into a shoving match. Robin was baffled by such a masculine practice—was there a winner? Was this how men their age bonded?—but it seemed good-natured enough. The du Berry twins were laughing behind their hands, and the older envoys grinned and chuckled, remembering their days of youth and similar friendships. Frederick, being Frederick, scowled but said nothing.

And besides, she could admit that there was a certain fun to it. And Chrom was smiling—

Chrom, however, was a man who was a poor judge of his own strength. With the sun shining on his brow and a grin lighting up his face, the prince gave a mighty heave that sent a very surprised Robin tumbling over the battlements and into the gardens below.

Shocked silence blanketed them.

Alpine du Berry covered his mouth with a hand. “Is he...dead?”

Frederick gave him a sharp look. He placed a reassuring hand on Chrom’s shoulder, who had blanched a ghastly white. “Milord…?”

“I…”

Chrom carefully removed Frederick’s hand and picked his way delicately over to the crenel. With the morbid certainty of dread, he slowly leaned over the edge—

To almost come nose-to-nose with Robin, who had floated up leisurely with her arms akimbo and her legs spread out in a strong, clear-cut stance. A chorus of astonished shouts followed her up from the gardens, with the guards and men on the ramparts joining in as well.

Robin cocked her head to the side innocently. “I’m sure that I’m not the first to tell you to mind your strength.”

Surprise shut her up as Chrom’s strong hands grabbed her waist in a firm grip, quickly pulling Robin out of the air, away from the parapet and down onto the walkway into an embrace. One arm came to circle her nape as a hand cradled her head and pushed it securely into the crook of his neck, which her nose barely reached.

He pulled back after a long period spent holding her in silence. Robin was completely sidelined by the gesture; the severity of his reaction rendered her mute, incapable of mustering a single word. She swore that she saw the beginnings of tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t—don’t scare me like that!” He patted her down (she carefully pulled her chest away) and smoothed her hair down desperately.

“Chrom, I swear, I’m fine—”

“Gods! I’m so sorry Daraen, I could have gotten you _killed_ over my stupidity! I—I swear that it was an accident, no, what am I saying, that wouldn’t fix anything—”  

“ _Chrom_. Please. I’m fine. Yes, you should learn to control yourself...but really. There’s no harm done.”

She had wanted to joke around and poke fun at him; like any mean-spirited joke, the novelty soon wore off to be replaced by deep guilt, and instead of feeling amusement, his frightened face took on a deeper meaning when she remembered that Emmeryn had died from a great fall.

Robin did not want to be the reason for anyone’s pain, and so tried to soothe his fears and held his elbows lightly. “I am unhurt.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

Their moment was interrupted by the ambassadors rushing over. “How on earth did you do that?” Alpine gasped breathlessly.

“Is everyone alright?”

_“That boy just flew.”_

“Your Highnesses, are you unharmed?”

Given had Frederick had plenty of reasons to dislike her, Robin was sure that the only thing that kept him from berating her openly was the fact that she vastly outranked him. Still, she was grateful for his intervention when he firmly yet politely kept the others apart with an outstretched arm.

“At ease, gentlemen. Your concern is gratifying, yet I kindly ask you to give milord some space.”

“How did you do that?” Alpine pressed on insistently. He ignored his brother trying to rein him in.

Robin shrugged. “Wind magic. It’s quite safe, really; I’ve been trained in it for a long time.”

“With all due respect, that did not seem safe in the slightest,” Frederick butted in.

“Frederick.” Chrom’s pinched face promised a discussion later. “I’m sure he knows what he is talking about. In fact,” he turned to Robin with a smile. “I’m sure he would be kind enough to demonstrate just how safe it is.”

Mentally berating him for putting her on the spot like that (and just after she felt bad for him!), Robin cocked a questioning brow. “Do you want me to try levitating you or…?”

“What do you say to getting us down to the gardens? I’m sure the others would want to see your skills at work, what with your previous demonstration.”

So annoying of him, yet entirely sincere and earnest. “...You better not be too heavy. And no funny business, or I _will_ drop you.” Frederick be damned.

“Don’t worry, I promise to behave this time.”

Their audience crowded around them on the walkway along with the dozens of other people in the gardens now pointing up and gaping in astonishment at the white-haired Plegian standing on the battlement crenellations and helping Chrom up. He stood nearly a full head taller. Robin hugged him tightly round the waist and, summoning the wind to do her bidding, cautiously felt the open air behind her with a foot before deeming it safe for their journey down.

“Here we go,” she grunted and heaved him up slightly as they began their slow descent.

The liar _was_ much heavier than her, but it was nothing compared to what Robin had handled before on similar flights. She adjusted her grip on him. Even with all his layered clothing on, his body felt hard and muscular, pressed right up against her front like that, and her cheeks heated up at such close, intimate contact. What she was doing was scandalous enough already; no need for her to get her knickers in a twist over added thoughts of _impropriety_.

“Do you do this often?” Chrom shouted over the winds whipping his hair. His expression was of pure, boyish delight.

Robin averted her eyes to hide her blush. “I might able to if—urgh—my passengers could be so kind as to lay off those pies.”

“The pot is calling the kettle black and you _know_ it.”

She allowed them to accelerate just as they touched down on the garden flagstones, and she immediately let him go and stumbled back at the sudden change of weight. They were mobbed by an amazed gaggle of courtiers who had seen their descent from beginning to end, and a round of applause burst forth for them.

“Daraen, that was incredible!” Lissa pushed her way out of the ring of people to grab Robin’s hands and jump excitedly in place. A blonde with familiar red eyes and meticulously styled ringlets stood a short distance away from Lissa and surveyed Robin with a shrewd expression. Frederick, naturally, had reached the gardens at almost the same time as they did, and was currently trying to push back the crowd that had formed. Basilio and the others stood slightly apart and watched with a mixture of amusement, shock, delight, and disappointment. Robin allowed herself to feel smug at the sour faces of Valentine and his co-conspirators.

“I think that’s enough excitement for one day people, give ‘em some space!” Basilio’s impressively broad body (and authority as west Khan) helped shield them from the onlookers, and Robin shot him a grateful look as Lissa and her unnerving companion shepherded them away from the hubbub.

Alpine du Berry and the others caught up to them breathlessly. “Will you carry me next?” he tugged on Robin’s sleeve childishly.

“Son, you are not a boy anymore, and monsieur Daraen is not a pleasure-pony,” du Berry chided.

“Sorry…”

“It has gotten quite late enough in the day without us running around after levitating men. Is anyone going to dinner?” Falstaff offered graciously. Most of the Feroxi, including Basilio, accepted, as did the Valmese and a few Rosannois. He turned to Lissa’s friend. “Maribelle, my dear, would you care to join us?”

Maribelle curtsied smoothly. “I thank you, uncle, but I shall have to decline. Donnel and Brady are returning from the countryside, you see, so I shall receive them.”

“Owain’s coming home too! Daraen, you want to come with? Chrom already promised he’d go with me,” Lissa nudged Chrom pointedly. “I’m sure you’d love to meet my special little guy.”

Robin was sorely tempted to refuse as she had work to do, matrices to fix and diagrams to write out. But she was a guest, and Lissa had spoken so fondly of her son, and Robin did in fact like children. Yes, she had work, but Lissa had offered so kindly...and her intimidating companion fixed her with a stare that made Robin unsure of what would make her angrier: accepting or refusing.

Well, she could not be a shut-in for too long...

“Alright.”  

They—being Chrom, Robin, Lissa, and Maribelle—were joined by Ricken at the castle gates before leaving the safety of the drawbridge for the larger stone bridge. Sure enough, a sturdy wooden cart pulled by two duns came rolling up, clearly a farm wagon judging by the thick bales of hay stacked in the back. Two very happy children whose hair was mussed by straw waved and shrieked upon arrival, and once the cart rolled to a stop, Lissa immediately scooped up a little boy whose auburn hair matched Ricken’s exactly.

“Mummy, no kisses! I’m too big for those!” he whined and wriggled in her grasp.

“And I love you too, Owain,” she laughed and passed him onto his father.

A very tall, muscular young man with wild purple curls and a hoary chin beard in the same shade stepped out of the carriage and slung the quieter of the children over his shoulder; that boy shared his hair colour as well and had the sort of tough face that big children who cried easily possessed. Maribelle practically glided over to them in spite of her heavy skirts and planted delicate kisses all over their cheeks.

“Was the trip safe, my darlings?”

“Smooth sailing all around, ‘cept for a few potholes here an’ there.” the man rubbed her back in reassurance.

“Nuh-uh. We saw _dead people_. They were all piled up an’ stuff and they were burning them on pears—”

“ _Pyres_ , Brady,” the man (who Robin assumed then was Donnel) began to correct his son before he caught Maribelle’s expression: simultaneously angered at being lied to, and equally concerned because it was evident she knew why he had fibbed.  

“Gives us a moment if you will,” Maribelle said curtly before depositing Brady with Lissa and pulling Donnel to a side. Their arguing was mercifully brief, as they returned not too long after and went back inside the safety of the castle walls with the children in tow.

Owain stared, brazenly and curiously, at Robin from behind Ricken’s shoulder. “Are you an old lady?”

 _“Owain!”_ Lissa scolded yet howled with laughter at his candour.

“You dummy, old ladies don’t have short hair, and they wear _lady_ clothes!” Brady rolled his eyes reproachfully at his friend.

Maribelle and Donnel, who had been conversing quietly with Chrom a little ways in front, turned at the sound of their child’s outburst. “Brady, must your diction be so crude?” Maribelle sighed.

“Owain’s being a dummy.”

“Am _not_.”

Brady pulled his hand out of Lissa’s and strolled determinedly to Robin, tugging on her trousers pointedly. “See? He wears _pants_.”

In response, Owain wiggled in Ricken’s arms until his father deposited him on the ground, and he made his way to Robin as well, demanding to be picked up with the universally childish gesture of holding his hands aloft. Bemused, Robin picked him up nonetheless, reassuring Ricken and Lissa with a quick nod. The toddler pressed his little hands to her face and peered into her brown eyes in his very thorough examination of her. Robin had no clue what it entailed, but he seemed deep in concentration, and so allowed him to proceed.

“He has lady eyes like mummy’s,” he finally pronounced. “They’re big and they got these long laces!”

“ _Lashes_ , dummy!” Brady soon forgot his scolding and became aware of the injustice of being alone on the floor while Owain was held securely above him. “No fair! I wanna be picked up too!” He began the task of climbing up Robin’s trouser leg himself. Robin scrambled to avoid him falling and heaved him up on an arm she freed, and found herself trying to balance the weight of two plump children in each arm.

Maribelle turned again from her important conversation with Chrom, gasped at the sight of Brady in a stranger’s arms, and marched right over disapprovingly. “Young man! Where are your manners? Climbing on a _diplomat_ like that, as if you were a common baboon! You are to come down this instant and apologise!”

“It’s not fair that Owain gets to be carried!”

“Owain should also learn to mind himself around his elders!”

“Aw, lighten up Mari, there’s no harm done!” Lissa shrugged off her friend’s concerns, but the formidable blonde was not so easily deterred. She turned to Robin apologetically.

“I am terribly sorry for his state of indecency, Your Highness, he is usually not so willful—”

“At ease, milady. I don’t mind children. In fact, I find them to be rather delightful. Their honesty is very refreshing,” Robin assured.

As if by magic, they were suddenly surrounded by a ring of court ladies, whose eyes were trained intently on Robin and the little boys in her grasp. They were not so close as to be obvious, but close enough to be noticeable (no matter how well some of them tried to hide behind some shrubbery).

“Is something the matter…?”

“No, Your Highness.” There was something calculating in the way that Maribelle looked from Robin to the women tittering and fanning themselves. Chrom himself had disengaged from Donnel and stared openly at the spectacle, his jaw even dropping slightly at the sight of Robin’s sudden and inexplicable magnetism. Maribelle spun around in a whirl of curls with an unsettlingly bright smile on her painted lips.

“I hope it is not too forward of me to ask, but it would do me a great honour to host you for a small luncheon. It would be my pleasure to show Your Highness a taste of Ylissean hospitality.”

Robin was in fact very hungry. And Maribelle certainly looked the type of noblewoman to pride herself on her reception of guests and high standards in cookery. But she was also a courtier, and while not overtly unfriendly, her intentions seemed to have ulterior motives—and her relation to Falstaff very suspect.

“Oooh, we’d love to Mari!” Lissa bounced excitedly in place. “She always has the best ham and tarts when she hosts.”

“If a leg of ham awaits, then I’m sure nothing else need be said,” Chrom agreed.

Well, if both were planning on attending…surely it could not be anything too uncomfortable.

“Mummy, I want some ham too! I’m hungry.”

“Brady, dearest, you are to march yourself first and foremost into the nearest bath before you are to even _think_ about eating with those dirty hands of yours.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

There were few moments in her life Robin could think of as being firmly in the territory of discomfort, and so far, most of them had taken place in the few days or her stay in Ylisstol.

What Maribelle had phrased as a “small luncheon” was actually a gathering of some 20-odd court ladies (not including herself, Maribelle, Lissa, their husbands, and Chrom) perched on several settees and chairs. Maribelle’s parlour was a curious space: it was decorated in various shades of pink; vases filled with roses and gentians dotted the room, and portraits depicting women at court or domestic scenes hung over the peachy pale panelling. It gave a lot of insight as to her personal taste, but it was not tacky or ugly.

Despite the supposed rationing set in place, they were surrounded by a veritable treasure trove of delicacies, including loaves of thick white bread and the legendary leg of ham. There were even foods Robin had never even tried before: her plate was piled high with unknowns such as hardboiled eggs, blue cheese, and a delicious honey-soaked marbled bread.

The women seemed to not mind Robin’s still terrible table manners as she demolished her plate and went back for thirds. In fact, most were positively coquettish, fanning themselves, brazenly adjusting their cleavage, and some being so bold as to bat their lashes at her. Even the young lady who had sneered at Robin’s dirtiness on the day of her arrival was now making eyes at her. Was a declaration of liking children suddenly enough to endear herself to these women who were ready to mock her for her foreign heritage? And what was Maribelle’s purpose in inviting them, anyways?

Robin had learned that the lady herself was the Duchess of Themis, the palatinate in southern Ylisse that accumulated its impressive wealth through farming and textiles, particularly in the business of sheep, barley, linen, and wheat. Her father had been the previous duke, and his seat as head of House Themis poised to be inherited by his brother Tobias upon his death—curiously enough, the man had instead chosen to pass it on to his niece instead. By all accounts, she was doing an admirable job of administering it.

She was, however, completely unamused over the way Robin was soiling her previously clean table linens and pushing food into her mouth like a starving animal.

“How fare you in Ylisse, Your Highness?” Maribelle asked. “Is your stay to your liking?”

“Though I’ve only been here but a few days, the castle has been agreeable so far.”

“Should you have any concerns, I place myself at your service. I shan’t disappoint.”

Maribelle’s flattery was merely a test: for what, Robin could not yet tell, but if she was anything like her uncle, then she was to be treated with extreme caution. At the very least her outward persona was of ingratiation instead of her uncle’s chilly politeness.

A pretty redhead who could not have been older than 16 leaned over coyly. “It is our pleasure to have your presence gracing Ylisstol.”

“Ah...thank you.”

Throughout the entire lunch, Chrom (having changed into more informal attire) had gaped at Robin in complete and utter amazement. She herself could not understand this sudden appeal she had, but it had placed her in an embarrassing spotlight, and she rather wished that she could simply stride across the room and close Chrom’s mouth before he caught any flies.

“And such a dear Your Highness was to those little darlings,” an elderly countess gushed. “It is always such a good quality in a man, to be mindful of children.”

“I quite agree,” Maribelle’s smiled tightened by a fraction. “A king who loves his children is one guaranteed to love his people in equal measure.”

“Have you any? Children, I mean,” the countess inquired.

Robin was acutely aware of the subtle drop in noise. “Er—no. I have no h-wife.” There was an almost audible sound of increased heartbeats as the ladies looked at each other from the corners of their eyes and smiled ever so slightly.

“I am confident that whoever you choose for a bride shall make a lovely mother. I do wonder what it must be like to raise children in Plegia,” Maribelle sipped her mulled wine delicately.

 _There_ it was. Robin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Contrary to what many think, the climate is rather agreeable for a child’s constitution. And while we do have nurses in our employ, we prefer to defer to the _tribal_ custom of entrusting them to communal care. We believe it works best to build bonds as a community.”

“How...quaint. Was Your Highness raised in such a manner?”

“I was.”

“It seems like such a simple life for one of noble background.”

“It was even simpler considering that I was brought up in a village. With goats.”

Donnel, who had mostly kept to himself and his plate of biscuits, perked up at the snippet of conversation. “Wow, really? That’s really somethin’ else, Your Lordshipness—so did I! I mean, I don’t live in the Farfort anymore, but I never really met a _prince_ who didn’t grow up in a castle.”

A most miraculous transformation overcame Maribelle as her face softened into an expression of genuine warmth and affection. She sat her fine porcelain cup down, folded her hands primly on her lap, and simply listened to them talk.

“You ever get stuck with mucking duty whenever ya behaved badly?”

“I was practically the stable boy,” Robin laughed. “I got into so much trouble. It’s a wonder my mother never used a rod on me.”

“I’ll say! My ma would scream to high heaven whenever she saw me slackin’ off on my chores.”

The luncheon continued amiably enough, with Robin being able to mostly ignore the other women or give simple, non-committal answers as she focused her attention mostly on Donnel, Maribelle, and occasionally Ricken. Chrom was a cause of concern, however. He spoke and ate very little. He was curiously subdued and paid close attention to the way others were interacting with Robin.

“We appreciate your generosity, ladies,” the prince finally said and rose to his feet. “But I believe it is time for us to take our leave...I have audiences to attend to. Good to see you again, Donnel,” Chrom nodded to him. “Lissa, Ricken. Daraen…are you coming?”

There was something a bit insecure in the way he called to her, in the way that his hand unconsciously wrung out his sleeve. Why on earth he looked so lost was beyond her, and Robin worried that it was something she did or said.

“I’m sorry...I’d like to, but there’s been so much going on that I’m afraid I’ve neglected my notes. I really should get some work done if I’m to come prepared with anything at all for tomorrow.”

Chrom’s crestfallen face made her feel a twinge of regret—and she forced herself to tamp it down. He was a grown man, she reminded herself, and he too had his duties to attend. And besides, they were going to see each other again anyways—

“Oh. Of course. I’ll...see you at supper then.” he gave her a half-hearted smile, bade goodbye to the ladies, and made for the door where Frederick and the Pegasus Knights were waiting for him. Ricken and Lissa left with Donnel to attend to their children and take them for a walk after the boys’ bath.  

Before Robin could shrug into her coat, stored carefully behind a painted screen in the entrance to the parlour, she was accosted by Maribelle.

“A word with you, if you please. Alone.”

She took Robin to a small antechamber coloured in the same tones as her parlour. It seemed her instincts as a hostess were utterly irrepressible, for as soon as Robin sat down, the duchess had a plate of cold cuts and a steaming pot laid out for them.

“I wasn’t aware that Ylisse knew of tea,” Robin said fondly as she ate.

“It is quite a civilised drink,” Maribelle held her cup delicately with her pinkie outstretched. “Fit for any respectable court. I daresay that I am surprised at your knowledge of it...why, with your tales of growing up amongst the _goats_ —”

“Western Plegia has been growing that stuff well before Ylisse requested to be able to trade for it in the first place,” Robin reminded her testily. “And I’ve also sampled some from its original source in Chon’sin. I’m sure that your husband must have had the _privilege_ of drinking it too, seeing how he’s married to a Duchess.”

It was clear from the narrowed red eyes that Maribelle was not one for being challenged on her own turf and terms. After a tense beat of silence, she eased her posture with a sigh of defeat.

“I apologise. I have been rude and careless with you despite your being a guest of House Ylisse. It is not my place to take such liberties with you and I am sorry for being so callous.”

Robin was surprised that a duchess of all people (and an Ylissean to boot) would admit such things to her in the first place; the apology did not pacify her completely, but it was a start, and it was certainly a higher degree of honesty that she had seen from the women who had gone from sneering at her to batting their lashes in the space of a couple of days. “Any friend of Chrom’s and Lissa’s is sure to be kind enough given the chance for it, so apology accepted.”

Maribelle’s red lips twisted into a wry, wistful smile. “He is a good man. I worry for him, so I’m rather glad he’s found a friend in you, even if you are not a member of our court.”

“What do you mean? He’s the Exalt-to-be...surely he’s got _some_ friends? Don’t you count? Lissa? Ricken? Donnel? And what do you mean by me? We’ve only known each other for a few days…”

“Your Highness, as a Prince yourself, surely you know that any true friendship royalty has is few and far between; why, it would be like asking a man to try and sort between a box of vipers and a box of spiders, and then asking him which one he likes best. We _do_ care for him...but our positions and responsibilities are not the same as they were when we were Shepherds. Our contact with him is but a mere shadow of how things used to be.”

“Is that why you wanted me alone? To ask me to watch him for you?”

“Yes and no,” Maribelle set her cup down and leaned forward attentively. “He has enough of Frederick’s nagging to keep him out of trouble most of the time...your _antics_ in the gardens have shown that your can be just as bone-headed as he is.”

“Thanks. Are you going to ask a favour of me, or do you want to get in some nagging yourself?”

“Patience, milord. You are still much more guarded than he is. And as the former tactician to Plegia, you are far from what I would call rash or unobservant...traits that, I’m sorry to say, are still very much a part of Chrom even as an adult. My request is of a more... _amorous_ nature.”

Any logical argument that Robin had prepared in the back of her mind died and she sat, completely dumbfounded and disarmed, at Maribelle’s mercy. “Oh.”

The duchess excused herself briefly to ensure no one was listening at the door. Satisfied, she returned to the chair opposite Robin’s. “You saw the way those women were looking at you.”

“I honestly doubt that most of them are smitten with me. Plegian or not, I’m sure that one or two at least has a parent waiting to marry them off to whatever rich Prince comes their way.”

“True. And I can also safely say that others are also dim and fickle enough to immediately fall for this exotic, dashing young foreigner who has admitted that he wants children in the future. Don’t sell yourself short: you are _quite_ the catch.”

Robin burned a fierce red. “How does that make me an expert on women, since that’s what you seem to be saying?”

Maribelle arranged her curls to the side and rolled her eyes. “The fact that we are having this conversation shows that you are clearly capable of discerning a lady’s intentions and have far more insight into the mind of my sex than milord Chrom does.”

A light went off in Robin’s head. “He’s having lady issues and you want me to help him.”

“Of all the crude phrasings to use—” Maribelle sighed exasperatedly. “Yes.”

“But...why me? I have enough on my hands with the summit as it is…”

“I know it is much too forward of me to even consider asking you such a thing, and I apologise. I will not hold it against you should you choose not to pursue this,” Maribelle tried to placate her. “But I ask because you spend much more time with him than I or his other friends are able to, and because it is quite obvious that he places a great deal of trust in you. Combined with your intellect, I should hope that this could be an open and shut case before summer.”

Robin’s sigh ruffled her white bangs as she leaned back into the upholstery and considered Maribelle’s pleas thoughtfully. She and Daraen _had_ been known as matchmakers back in their days on campaign, simply because guiding people through their relationships was a good way for them to build bonds with their subordinates: _a harmonious army is a strong army_ , they would often quote to one another. As much as she hated to admit it, they had always been desperate for friendships ever since being taken under Validar’s harsh wing. The downtrodden way that Chrom had looked at her, after all he’d done for her, the way that Maribelle’s words confirmed those sentiments, activated that shameful, craving part of Robin.

How could she say no?

“Who’s the lucky lady?” Robin conceded.

Maribelle clapped her hands together in victorious satisfaction. “Her name is Olivia.”

“Feroxi then. So she’s here?”

“As a matter of fact, she is Basilio’s niece, and here as part of his personal entourage.”

“ _Wonderful_. Does Basilio know?”

“Rumour has it that, while he is a very good friend of Chrom’s and House Ylisse, he personally prefers the Duke Virion for his niece.”

 _Rumour_ was usually not a very sound hunch to go off from, but Maribelle seemed like the kind of person who knew how to procure court gossip and sift through leads she found to be the most probable.

“And why is that?”

The duchess smoothed down her voluminous dress and picked imaginary pieces of lint off the immaculate maroon fabric. “She is a dancer and a singer, he a very cultured and thoughtful man who is much more attuned to her sensitivities than Chrom is, unfortunately. And he is well-versed in the art of courting, and from what I’ve heard his approach is subtle and well-paced. Chrom is...well, the closest I can seem to describe it would be _overbearing_.”

Robin quirked an eyebrow. “Chrom doesn’t seem the type to be overbearing.”

“To you? Of course not. But, as I said, she is a sensitive woman,” Maribelle exhaled, “and his constant sending her gifts, love-notes, and trying to catch her alone in the gardens are too much for a lady of her constitution. What they both need is for a patient, _tactical_ hand at work.”

“And if I fail?” Robin pressed.

“Then you shall surely know how to soften the blow and help Chrom once more. But please, I doubt that you, with all the reputation to precede you, accept anything less than victory.”

Robin stood and thanked her for the generous meal. “I shall see what I can do, milady.”

“But of course,” Maribelle’s teeth were a sharp, pearly white next to her rouged lips. “Allow me to walk you to the way out.”

Karel and Rood were waiting for Robin where the Pegasus Knights were standing but a few moments ago, ready to escort her away. “Thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace. I’ll try my hardest.”

“And I have the utmost faith in Your Highness,” Maribelle replied. “Farewell!”

Robin never quite knew what is it that pushed the duchess to seek out her help specifically, or why she was so dead-set on procuring her support for Chrom. Whatever it was, she had a sinking feeling in her gut telling her that she might have bitten off more than she could chew.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Robin may meet a certain someone...and dig herself into an even deeper hole than she thinks she's in!


	6. The Willow Cabin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to Iturbide for her tireless beta work, and for screaming over Olivia and Robin and Chrom's shenanigans. This space is also here to plug her fics to read ;)
> 
> And now: The Plegian and the Feroxi finally meet. The beginning of the hole Chrom will dig himself into...

 

 

 

It seemed as though she had scarcely gone to bed when Robin was shaken, roughly and carelessly, from her sleep. Blearily opening her crusty eyes, she turned in her mattress to try and discern the offender who would dare to disturb her slumber.

"... _Chrom?_ "

The prince regnant was, simply put, a mess. His hair flew all over in a wild disarray. His eyelids were drooping and his clothes were dishevelled. He had a look in his eyes that suggested a sort of mania had taken hold of him and kept him pacing all night.

"T-thank goodnesss you're awake," Chrom slurred, and the stench of alcohol rolled out of his mouth and washed over Robin's face. The man positively reeked of ale: his clothes and breath were impregnated with the awful, powerful scent, and it took all of Robin's willpower not to gag in front of him.

"Chrom, it's—" she turned to the clock sitting on her nightstand until she remembered that she could not even read such a device in the first place. "—too late," she muttered. "What are you doing here? Is everything alright?" She did not miss the absence of her attendants...or her chest bindings. Robin immediately cocooned herself within her sheets.

"Not really," the prince admitted sadly. He brightened up almost immediately. "But...you can help me, can't you?" Chrom made himself at home on Robin's bed and sat by her side, their combined weight sinking the mattress down even further.

"Um...what is it that you're looking for help in, exactly?"

"...You'll laugh at me if I say."

"I promise I won't." _And it's too gods-damned late in the night for you to wake me and then not want to say anything about it._

Chrom mulled her words over for a good while. When it seemed Robin would nod off out of exhaustion, he shook her again and finally spoke.

"A-at Maribelle's luncheon...you had allll those ladies looking your way."

"...Did I?"

"Yeah...all of them looked so...happy at you. Hanging on to your every word…I want to be looked at like that too."

_Oh dear._

This was a rehash of her conversation with Maribelle. But instead of a poised, perfectly composed duchess explaining the terms of a request to her, Robin now had an inebriated, lovesick prince paying her a visit well into the night and babbling over her supposed romantic prowess that he wanted in on.

Were she not a prince (or at least masquerading as one), she was sure that Frederick would have skinned her alive.

"Look, Chrom...are you sure that you want to discuss such a thing at this hour? It's very late, and you're very drunk. Wouldn't you rather talk this over in the morning?" Robin placed a hand on the small of his back to try and push him out of her bed, and pressed the cup of water from her sideboard into his hands in the hopes that he would attempt to keep himself hydrated.

Chrom downed the entirety of its contents in a single gulp, but refused to budge from her side. To her horror, he kicked off his boots and settled into bed along with her instead, leaning back comfortably with his head stealing her pillow.

"This can't wait!" Chrom insisted. "I need you _now_."

_Pegasus dung._ This was going to be a long night…

"...Fine," Robin sighed. "Tell me."

His smile was bright and cheery in spite of the night's darkness and his state of disarray. Robin was supposed to stay annoyed at him but could not help but feel a bit of her bad mood melt away at the sight.

Chrom turned his head away to yawn. "So there's this woman—"

_Olivia_ , Robin thought.

"—her name is Olivia. By gods Daraen, is she the loveliest thing! The most beautiful sight I've ever laid eyes on."

He turned to Robin expectantly, but she merely nodded, prompting him to continue. He scratched his head before picking up where he had left off.

"She's...honestly, the most gorgeous thing ever. Pink and fair as any rose—no, a hundred times prettier than a common rose. Eyes as gray as the ocean...or were they violet? Dark pink?"

Robin sighed. Then again, he was drunk, so she was not really expecting his narrative to be all that reliable.

"And she's a dancer. And a singer. When she performs...it's like nothing else exists. It's just her and…" Chrom raised his hands dreamily and moved them in the air as though he were tracing a woman's curves.

Robin rolled her eyes exasperatedly. _Men_ , she thought.

"But she won't even have me!" Chrom lamented and threw his arm over his eyes dramatically. "I've sent letters, gifts, flowers...she sends them right back without a word. I don't know what I'm doing wrong to begin with…"

"Have you asked her why?"

"Huh?"

"Have. You. Asked. Her. Why."

Chrom squinted through the darkness and tapped his chin thoughtfully. Even in his drunken state, he had the decency to look shame-faced and turned to her sheepishly. "...No."

Robin scoffed incredulously. "Well, maybe this would be settled if you just talked, then. Gods know how many misunderstandings could have been cleared up if people actually made the effort to talk. And now that this has been settled, I definitely think it's time for you to go to bed." Robin tried to roll him out with as much force as she could muster without accidentally pushing him into the corner of her nightstand or onto the floor; she could do without a lashing from Frederick for dashing the prince's brains out in her guestroom.

The oaf had the gall to open up her bedsheets and burrow into them, sticking his tongue out stubbornly instead of cooperating. In spite of him being a strange, mopey drunk rather than aggressive and argumentative, Robin's patience was starting to wear thin and sleep threatened to overtake her sooner or later.

Chrom pulled the sheets up to his chin and sighed, melancholy and forlorn, totally inured to Robin stewing next to him. "That's the thing...what if I just scare her off? What if I say the wrong thing? W-what if she laughs in my face and says she wants nothing to do with me?"

_Has it occurred to you that there are far worse things that could happen?_ Robin did not say. However petty and annoyed she felt, Chrom cut a pitiable figure, lying in bed like that, and she soon felt sorry enough for him to wonder if his desperation was so great as to drive him to drink.

"I'm sure she won't," Robin tried to comfort him and patted his back gently, if awkwardly.

"How do you know?"

Robin shrugged, unsure. As she was about to open her mouth to continue, Chrom shot upright, a brilliant grin replacing his gloomy frown.

"Of _course_ you would know. You're _you_."

"I'm what?"

"All those ladies were talking about you...admiring you...when I left it was all ' _Daraen this, Plegia that_.' They couldn't take their eyes off of you!" The prince took her hands in his; in spite of the smell of alcohol, the feeling of his breath on her face made Robin feel hot and bothered.

"What are you talking about? No, it's clear that it's the ale talking—Chrom, you're making very little sense."

"No, no, I'm perfectly fine," Chrom insisted even as his head lolled bonelessly. "I'll be even better once you teach me what you know about women...what is it that you do to make yourself so irresistible to them!"

Robin barely had any clue herself as to this sudden appeal of hers that Chrom described, and despite her promising Maribelle that she would help the lovelorn prince, she had little idea for how to even begin. She had never even met Olivia and yet found herself wanting to strangle the woman for putting her in such a predicament.

No, better to strangle Chrom for being such a fool in the first place.

"Maybe you just have to change your approach," Robin grunted as she tried to heave him out once more.

"You're right," Chrom agreed, and sank into moroseness once again. "Maybe I'm c-coming on too strong. Maybe she feels me too threatening, too coarse and boorish for someone like her."

_Thank goodness for self awareness,_ Robin thought approvingly just as she was able to push him to the edge of her mattress.

She groaned, close to resignation, as Chrom rolled back to his previous position, seemingly not having noticed her attempts to get him out. He hiccupped drunkenly and knit his brows together in concentration.

"Maybe she's one of those ladies who prefers the company of other women…"

Robin had been so invested in her efforts in reclaiming her bed that she did not notice him moving. She froze as his hand came to rest on the back of her head. As lush as he was with alcohol, Chrom's eyes were trained intently on hers; the way that his hand moved from her hair to her cheek felt deliberate.

"I-if she prefers the company of women, then doesn't that mean that you have to rethink your whole strategy?"

"That won't be a problem with you helping me now, won't it?" a dreamy smile quirked his lips up. "If that's the case, then she'll surely feel more comfortable around you."

"I-I'm a man, Chrom," Robin said unconvincingly. "I doubt that she'd take to me at all."

"Nnnonssensssse." Chrom leaned in closer to her, with their foreheads almost touching. "The way you are, you barely look a day over manhood. That soft, high voice, those smooth pink lips…" he swiped his thumb over her lower lip as he spoke. Robin's cheeks flushed a hot red; drunk or not, the contact was strangely intimate, and yet...she made little effort to push him off.

Chrom mercifully untangled himself from her sheets and left her bedside, staggering a bit before regaining his bearings. Robin exhaled a breath she was not aware she had been holding. His lopsided grin was as bright as ever and he looked entirely unfazed by their exchange.

"You'll act on my behalf, won't you? With you there she'll surely not have much to object to."

"Wouldn't you rather just d-do it yourself?"

Chrom waved a hand dismissively. "You'll soften her up before I come in. Make her see that my love for her is as true as can be. Put your logic, speaking skills, and strategic thought to my use."

"And how exactly do you propose I do that?"

"I dunno. Be insistent. Be loud and obnoxious. Break down her doors if you have to. I know that you're the right man for the job...you'll help me, won't you?"

Chrom smiled down at her as he braced himself with a hand on the headboard and the other on Robin's duvet, right over her thigh. She immediately thought back to the touch of his thumb on her lips and gulped, unsure of what to do.

"If I promise to help you, then you have to promise to let me sleep," she conceded cautiously.

Chrom blinked dumbly in response. Comprehension lit his cloudy vision and the prince nodded in agreeance. "That I shall. I hope you sleep well Daraen," he started towards the exit. "Thank you for this...I'll see to it that your efforts are rewarded," he winked drunkenly.

"They better be. And go sober up," Robin grumbled under her breath.

She watched as he missed the door by a mile and smacked into the wall with a loud bang. He stared intently at the wall for a few good moments before his hand finally found the doorknob and he opened it to reveal a sliver of light and Frederick's disgruntled face staring in. With a cheery wave, he finally took his leave.

Robin flopped back onto her pillow with a loud sigh and dragged her hands down her face. Now it was going to be impossible to try to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Robin yawned into her hand for the umpteenth time as she strolled over the keep's lawn. She had made sure to wake early, even for her, to be able to ask around as to the location of the apartments housing the Feroxi delegation. That way she could get started on this infernal task of hers and at least get it over with before noon.

It was not to say she had no time for it that particular day. In fact, the previous summit meeting had gone rather poorly; while no one had stood up in their seat to scream and fling accusations, the atmosphere was decidedly chilly and the negotiations basically amounted to arguing whether they should set a budget first or whether they should decide to tackle a certain issue beforehand. Chrom had been forced to adjourn the session with no progress made, but warned that the issue of funds against topics was to be put down to a vote. At the very least she had some work finished up from the day Chrom accidentally threw her off the battlements.

She groaned at the thought. As charming and kind as he was, many of her current predicaments could be traced back to the prince, on top of having to keep up the pretense of filling her brother's seat. Playing matchmaker for an Ylissean of all things…

But Robin was a woman of her word, and she had already promised herself twice over, to the duchess and the prince. No matter how tedious the job, no matter how difficult it would be to balance with her other duties, Robin would see this to the end.

Why Chrom insisted that this Olivia had to be the one was beyond her. Was it not enough to be the richest, most politically visible bachelor of Ylisse? He could have picked any other woman who would have been more than happy to wed and bear him children. Why the one who refused him?

_Sometimes we humans let our greed get the best of us,_ Daraen had mused over a similar case, once. _Having something that was denied to us feels like a vindication to some. The chase is often more thrilling than the catch._

She hoped that Chrom was not as selfish as to be the kind of man who would toss a lover to the side once the novelty of courtship had worn off.

Robin was jolted out of her reverie by her arrival to the Feroxi villa. It was pretty: a burbling fountain with spouts in the shape of pegasi taking flight cooled the leafy courtyard, with flowers and trees of all kinds (rhododendrons, roses, a stately willow rustling with movement, and rows of hedges and delphiniums) dressing the space in the colour and cheer of spring. Robin tucked her hand in her pocket to make sure the paper with Chrom's talking points was still there as she walked to the doorway of the handsome apartments.

The prince had taken her aside during the previous day's breakfast, confessing that he remembered everything that transpired the night before. He had begged her forgiveness and admitted his shame once he came to the morning after and was able to reflect on his indecency, rambling on until Robin interrupted him with an upturned palm.

"Chrom, however strange last night was, don't worry. I already promised to help."

"I—what?"

"You heard me."

"But...Daraen, I was being nothing more than a drunken oaf, I _touched_ you, you don't have to—"

"I'm not a man who reneges on promises, Chrom. Once I finish this, then I'm sure you can find a way to make it up to me; but for now, let me do the job I am held to."

She was sure that the prince had tears of gratefulness in his eyes, lovesick fool that he was. At the end of the day, as they all filed out of the hall with bellies full of mead and roast pork, he had pushed a sweaty note, folded up several times, into her open palm discreetly.

Robin had squinted at the hurried scrawl. "Chrom, what is this?"

"My, uh, talking points. Look, just because you agreed to help me doesn't mean I'm leaving all the legwork to you. That would be unkind of me, don't you think? But please, let her hear it from your lips only." At the word _lips_ , Chrom flushed a bright pink and excused himself hurriedly.

To his credit, the speech was fairly standard, waxing poetic on Olivia's beauty, her charm, grace, and the heartache Chrom felt pining after her in the hopes that she would reciprocate. It certainly was in need of editing, but Robin preferred to see just how exactly Chrom's words worked with her own eyes and take notes as to what needed fixing. Tailoring his approach was one of the first things that needed to be established.

Even so, it did little to diminish the impression that Robin was going to come off as either very stupid, simpering, or both. She grumbled as she took the heavy brass knocker and rapped it loudly against the front door.

 

* * *

 

Sully was watching Robin from the sliver of window she had exposed under the heavy drapes, suspicious as to why they would have a solicitor at their doorstep so early in the morning. She frowned at the distinctly Plegian sheen of his (for the stranger wore male clothes) hair. She had heard of the lone Plegian ambassador in the castle—but what was _he_ doing here of all places? What business did he have?

The redhead muttered and griped under her breath all the way up the stairs, careful to stay out of the way of the servants tidying up the apartments for the day's beginning.

Sully knocked at the door to Olivia's boudoir harshly, as she was wont to do until she heard the lady's soft exclamation of "come in!" She opened it with a terse "thanks" as she took her seat by the window. Soft early morning light streamed inside and bathed the room and its occupants with a rosy glow, touching up Olivia's hair and giving it an even pinker tone. The khatun was at her vanity and was being fussed over by a cadre of ladies-in-waiting who offered her a multitude of silks and jewellery as she applied her makeup and prepared for the day.

Accepting an offered platter of fruit, Sully selected an apple and crunched into it noisily before beckoning Excellus over. The steward glided over to her silently with his customary early morning glower.

"I am not a dog that you can summon so carelessly," Excellus sniffed.

"Yeah yeah, mornin' to you too, Toady. Listen...I think we might have a situation at the front door."

"Another of Lord Chrom's messengers?"

"Dunno. Young guy. It's the Plegian, actually. No idea why he's here though."

At the mention of the prince's name, Olivia sighed, waved off her attendants, and turned in her seat to face Sully and Excellus, her earrings jingling with the movement. "Again?" she sighed in dismay.

"I dunno why he's here exactly, Olivia, but the guy's Plegian. _The_ Plegian, I'm sure you've heard."

Olivia pursed her lips contemplatively. "Why on earth would _he_ be here?"

"Beats me. I bet it's something important, since it's still so early…"

"Milady, what think you of this? Shall I send him on his way?" Excellus said eagerly.

Olivia, thinking hard, chewed on her lip. The circumstances surrounding that man were certainly strange; in his short stay in Ylisstol there was already an abundance of rumours circling throughout the court. What exactly did a man like him need here?

Then again, there was the minor scandal that had originated in the gardens...something about him being able to fly. They said that he had taken Chrom up in his arms and had levitated them down from the ramparts and onto the lawn.

And if there was _any_ mention of Chrom, then it was something Olivia had no desire to be involved with.

"Please do," she sighed and returned to her mirror. "If the young man desires an audience then he would certainly be more prudent and reschedule for later. _He_ probably sent him."

"Of course, milady," Excellus simpered and scampered off to the door.

 

* * *

 

Robin tapped her foot impatiently and adjusted her collar now that the rising sun heralded a shift in temperature. While the newfound heat was a welcome presence, the change in times had left her irritable. Who would be so rude as to leave a visitor waiting so long? Did they not have anyone to attend to the doorway? Or were they just going to blatantly ignore her?

Her questions were almost answered as the door opened a smidgen to reveal who she assumed to be a butler of sorts. He wore robes similar to that of a sage and his hair was cut very short and with a blunt fringe. He would not have looked so ugly were his smile not so evidently fake and unwelcoming.

"Good morning," the man sniffed, and raked his eyes over Robin's form condescendingly. She immediately decided that she found him to be annoyingly rude. "Are you lost, young man? Or have you any business with Khan Basilio, or the Lady Olivia?"

"Good morning. I was sent here on behalf of Prince Chrom." Robin's reply was polite yet clipped.

The man's ugly, square white teeth were revealed bit by bit as his lips opened in a slow sneer. Robin barely knew him and his openly disrespectful mannerisms were already starting to grate at her patience. "I'm afraid to say that we are currently not accepting visitors or—ah, _messengers_ at the moment. Perhaps if you'd had the foresight to schedule an audience beforehand...if not, then I'm afraid you're simply wasting everyone's time. You are welcome to return later and try again...but for the moment, I'm afraid you have to leave. We can't have any obstructions on our doorstep..."

_Nobody told me anything about having to schedule anything. It's too damn early for me to be dealing with this,_ Robin thought as her frustration and lack of sleep threatened to spill over. She jammed her foot into the slowly closing door, startling the astonishingly impudent servant, and positively growled at him.

"And just who is it that I have the distinct displeasure of talking to?"

Stunned silence was the reply. A moment later, she heard a petulant "Excellus, sir," from behind the door.

"Listen, Excellus: I have but one message. I assure you that the faster I get to it, the faster I'm out of everyone's sight. I got here early so that I wouldn't take up everyone's _valuable_ time, you see. Is the Lady Olivia available or not?"

Another sullen silence stretched out. Robin made a point of tapping her nails on the door.

"...She is...asleep," Excellus tried to lie. Robin rolled her eyes.

"Then I'll just wait for her until she wakes up."

"She is asleep because she feels unwell, sir."

"Then I'll just wait for her until she feels better."

"Milady will _not_ deign to speak in the presence of such a coarse thing like yourself," Excellus spat.

"My message is for her ears only. I'll not let an arrogant _toad_ try to throw his weight around as though he has the right. I'll stay here like a damn signpost and wait even if it takes me a week to get an audience." Robin crossed her arms, sat herself resolutely down on the step, and shoved her leg further past the doorway with a sharp glare.

Excellus stared wordlessly back and left the door to scurry up the stairs, spitting curses as he went.

Olivia was alerted to Excellus' return by the distinctive sound of him swearing. She sighed into her pot of rouge as her steward stormed into her boudoir thundering up a hurricane of profanity.

"Ooh, impudent wretch that he is, one would think his mother's milk was scarcely out of him—as though a _boy_ of his type has the _right_ —"

"Excellus," Olivia interrupted softly. "What is the matter?"

The steward's face was an unattractive shade of puce as he struggled to control his breathing. When his laboured panting finally evened out, he smoothed back his hair with as much dignity as he could muster before replying.

"This peascod, this codling, this _upstart_ waiting at the gate is very rude and speaks as though he were a common shrew. I tried to dissuade him, milady, but he threw my words in my face and demanded to speak to you immediately...he says he is here on behalf of Prince Chrom. Shall I have the guards throw him out?"

Olivia chewed her lip nervously as she contemplated the situation. The khatun had feared that it was another one of Chrom's attempts to woo her...but why send the Plegian in his stead? What reason did he have for coming on Chrom's behalf? Why would he be so uncouth as to demand her presence so stubbornly?

She sighed again. Try as she might, her refusals to Chrom seemed to have either flown over his head, or he was choosing to ignore them entirely, and now he had gone and involved a third party in the matter. Whatever the case was, Olivia was at a loss.

What to do? She could easily accept Excellus' offer to summon the guards—the Plegian would be escorted off quietly and without a fuss. If she wanted to be more aggressive, she could even have Sully do it in her usual brash manner and send him on his way, hopefully too intimidated to return, as the retainer had done with previous messengers. Either option was tempting: it meant Olivia would not have to be there herself. She would be able to ward off another of Chrom's attempts and keep herself as uninvolved as possible.

And yet...he presented a mystery that had piqued her curiosity begrudgingly. He was himself royalty on equal standing with Chrom...why go to the trouble of waking at such an hour for the express humiliation of standing outside her door, hoping to deliver a message, as others had attempted unsuccessfully before? Why even accept to debase himself to such a lowly position as Chrom's lackey? Was he being blackmailed? Had he been promised something in return?

Or was there something more to him?

"Sully, may I have my veil, please?"

The redhead, who had amused herself over Excellus' typically overdrawn displays of anger, snapped back to attention and blinked at Olivia. "You're not seriously going down there yourself?" Sully carefully handled the gauzy fabric and helped to drape it over Olivia's shoulders and face, tucking the corners into the back of her dress.

Olivia exhaled nervously; she was always terribly shy in front of others, nevermind complete strangers, and royalty to boot. Interaction often seemed like an impossibly daunting task. But if she wanted this cleared up, then she had to try and be as firm and composed as possible. "W-well, sometimes, we have to do some things ourselves," she replied shakily as she made her way downstairs.

 

* * *

 

As Robin waited sulkily on the doorstep, feeling very ridiculous and frustrated (what with having a leg halfway through the door as she sat, splayed over the entrance), the door opened once more. To her surprise, a heavily hungover Basilio greeted her. He had a white handkerchief in one hand—it looked suspiciously more like someone's cravat to Robin—and a stein of beer in the other.

"Ho, Daraen!" he yawned and belched. A fishy scent permeated the air and Robin held her breath instinctively. "Damn these pickled herring," Basilio muttered under his breath. He took a hearty swig of beer and wiped his thick lips with exaggerated delicacy before addressing her again. "What brings you to this neck of the woods so early this morning?"

"I'm here to see Olivia," Robin shrugged plaintively.

"You—wait, what?" Basilio's smile slipped a fraction. He then sighed and scrubbed his face with the handkerchief tiredly—he had seen this scene played out before. "Did Chrom send you here?"

"...Yes."

"..."

"Sorry for being a bother."

"It's not _you_ ," Basilio sighed. He opened the door with a look that could only be described as pity before he hauled Robin bodily up by the scruff of her collar. "You should prolly come inside—my ass is hurting just from looking at you sit like that."

" _Thanks._ "

Basilio led her to a small parlour populated by cushy couches and warmed by a stone fireplace. They sat by a large bay window where they were immediately approached by a deferential maidservant.

"A refreshment, sirs?"

"Nothing _too_ strong for Bubbles here, else he might pass out from all the excitement," a sly voice mocked.

Robin arched her brow at the lanky, freckled ginger leaning casually against the doorframe, a stick of chamber spice jutting jauntily out of his mouth. His clothes were better suited to skulking around dark alleys at night and his soiled boots were muddying the expensive hardwood floor, a fact that did not go unnoticed as he sat with them and propped his feet up on a frail side table. The maid sighed in resignation but said nothing and left.

"Bubbles?" Robin asked.

The man waved away her question nonchalantly. "Never you mind that," was his airy response. His narrow eyes were a bright, calculating green that surveyed her brazenly. "Heard Your Highness was here on some…'official business.'"

"I know you know," Robin replied evenly. "You were eavesdropping in the willow. Hard to be stealthy when I can hear you moving around on the branches. Or when you're trying to sneak in through the back and the fountain makes the grass muddy." She nodded pointedly at the mud dripping from his dirty boots.

Robin felt a twinge of unease as his eyes narrowed further; perhaps her answer was a bit too on the nose and she had offended him somehow. Her worries proved unfounded as the man snorted and clapped her hard on the back.

"This guy's a smartass, alright."

Basilio laughed in return. "You honestly thought you could hide from him? Nah, Gaius. They called him 'Six-Eyes' during the war."

Robin laughed nervously and gratefully accepted the cider the mute servant had returned with. It was a sensitive topic she was not willing to discuss with non-Plegians...at the very least, they thought it some sort of nickname often bestowed on soldiers of the type given to notoriety, instead of knowing its true origins.

"But what's a guy like you doing slumming around these here parts? Doesn't Blue have enough fancy servants on him to send instead of a prince? What'd he promise you?" Gaius weedled.

Blue? He probably meant Chrom. "Nothing," Robin said honestly. "I just promised I would help him."

"He for sure needs all the help he can get," Gaius muttered under his breath. Basilio snorted into his empty stein of beer as he reached for the cider. "C'mon man. Nobody does stuff for free. Nobody's _that_ nice unless they're expecting something."

"And what do you think I'm expecting?" Robin countered.

Gaius rested his chin on a hand and shrugged. "Dunno. I'll find out sooner or later. Wanna talk this over lunch? You'll have to foot the bill, though."

"Gaius, you will do no such thing," a soft, tired voice sighed.

Olivia did not share her uncle's dark skin or his confident posture, but there was definitely a resemblance, even with the gauzy veil of her half-mourning clothes obscuring her face. Her hands clutched the front of her dress nervously as she watched them from the foot of the staircase. Excellus, that smug toad, was blatantly staring from behind the bannister, while a short, muscular, redheaded woman stood a little ways behind Olivia in a protective stance.

A slow smirk curled the edges of Gaius' lips. "'Sup Babe. Wanna join in? We got cider."

"No thank you. And uncle, what are you doing, drinking again? You're going to need a surgeon at this rate…"

"Relax Livvy! It's just the hair of the dog," Basilio grinned. "I'm trying to be a good host."

"Pickled herring is not the answer to a night of binging, and cider will make it worse," Olivia said exasperatedly. She turned to Gaius. "Please, he's half-dead already. Can you take him upstairs to rest?"

"I'm not an invalid," Basilio complained.

"And why do I gotta do it?" Gaius chimed in. "We were having such a grand old time with Bubbles here."

There was a long, pregnant silence as Olivia's eyes turned to Robin expectantly.

Though she wanted to adjust her collar out of anxiety, Robin met her gaze evenly. Now that the lady of the house was here in the flesh, Robin could deliver Chrom's message and get it over with, the sooner the better, and to the mutual benefit of everyone involved. Olivia was probably sick of having to play games of artfully deflecting Chrom's unwanted attentions—he was kind enough to Robin and his subordinates, but snubbing men with his kind of power often did not go over well for women. Either way, Robin was determined to make this as quick and painless as possible.

But damn if the others had to make it so awkward with their staring.

"I was told y-you come bearing a message for the lady of the house," Olivia tried to control her voice.

"I do," Robin stood and bowed politely. "Might you be her?"

"...Well...if you could just state your business…"

"My message is for the lady's ears—"

"Look," the redheaded woman interrupted presumptuously. "We all know why you're here. That's nice of you and all, but we don't care how important you are, or even if Chrom himself sent you. So I'm gonna say it slowly in case you don't understand, and I'll tell you the same thing I told the others: you're better off just leaving."

"With all due respect, my message is rather short. If I could just say my piece, I promise to leave as quickly as possible," Robin smiled tersely.

"Then get it over with."

"It's for the lady's ears only."

The woman scoffed. "Of all the—look, if it's more of that lovey-dovey hogwash that Chrom's too scared to deliver himself, then you're wasting your time here, like all the other chumps before you. And if you're wasting our time, then what's the point?" Sully strode purposefully to the doorframe and held it wide open pointedly. "Ready to set sail, _sir?_ The door's right here."

Excellus had never looked so smug in the short time Robin had known him.

Thoroughly fed up with the astounding rudeness she had encountered throughout the so far very short day, Robin walked up to the redhead and squared off resolutely, noting that she was at least a head taller than the brash woman. "The sooner I get it done, the faster I'm out of here, considering how _eager_ everyone has been to get rid of me so far."

The woman's nostrils had begun to flare dangerously. While Robin noticed the servants edging away nervously, her anger at being treated so poorly overrode her senses. She looked the woman dead in the eye and said, "So, no, I'll have to decline your offer, because this boat's docking here a while longer, _little sailor_." And then she reached behind the woman and closed the door with a loud slam.

Despite the redhead's impressively fast lunge, Robin managed to pull her head back just in time to avoid what might have been a devastating punch. As the servants crowded around the furious woman, and Basilio left his seat to try and help to restrain her, Olivia threw herself in the middle of the fray.

"SULLY!" She admonished. "Control yourself!"

"If that little bastard thinks he can get away with being a smartass, he's got another thing coming!" Sully grunted and strained against the people holding her back.

"Let's not start an international incident right now!" Basilio heaved her over his shoulder like a sack of flour; it only angered Sully more, and soon her face was as red as her hair as she beat Basilio's back and spat profanities. Excellus looked entirely too amused with the situation, and Gaius looked as though he was about to die from laughter from his seat.

Olivia, on the other hand, looked as though she wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole. Mortified, she turned to Robin, hands clasped, eyes pleading. "If I agree to hear your message, you must promise me to leave so that peace can be restored here!"

"I'm sorry I interrupted your peace in the first place," an embarrassed Robin said.

"I think it's time for me to get some rest," Basilio started up towards the stairs with a still screaming Sully over his shoulder. "Gaius, mind giving this old man a hand?"

The ginger-haired man stopped laughing immediately. "C'mon, I can't miss this!"

" _Gaius."_

He sighed and joined Basilio at the foot of the stairs sulkily. "Fine." He turned to Excellus reproachfully. "Don't think _you're_ gonna get to stand around here, Toady."

The very mention of such a name wiped the smirk off Excellus' face. "I need to stay put; why, if my lady requires anything—"

"She's got a whole houseful of servants, and she can go and scream for anyone she pleases. And besides, Bubbles said it was a _private_ message," Gaius interrupted, relishing Excellus' increasingly sour expression.

The steward stared brazenly at Robin, wringing his hands just as Olivia did with the fine cloth of her dress. " _Alright,"_ he conceded grudgingly. Gaius did not budge until Excellus finally gave in and began to climb up the stairs behind Basilio. Gaius gave Robin an encouraging thumbs up from behind Excellus' back, and a relieved manservant closed the door on Robin and Olivia, finally leaving them alone.

The awkwardness of their meeting was punctuated by the solitary ticking of the large clock on the fireplace mantle. Robin scratched her nape, suddenly at a loss now that they were alone, and Olivia's hands migrated from her dress to picking at a stray thread on the cuff of a sleeve.

Robin looked askance at her. "I think that it might be best if we move somewhere else."

"O-oh?" Olivia replied, startled at being addressed.

Robin shrugged. "The others seem like the eavesdropping type."

A wry smile could be seen under Olivia's cloudy white veil. "They are. Y-you're rather good at reading others."

"So I've been told."

They stood in silence for yet a little while longer until Olivia interrupted their pause. "There's the drawing room a little ways behind here...we hardly use it anyways…"

"The drawing room it is, then."

The khatun led the way to a larger room decorated in the customary Ylissean blues and greens, making sure to lock the doors behind them. She bade Robin to sit with her on a set of chairs that were separated by a spindly tea-table stamped with the crest of house Ylisse. The heraldry was a pointed reminder of the task ahead, and both stewed a little while longer in their discomfort.

It was Olivia who took the initiative once more. "If you please…"

Robin swallowed nervously. "...Right." She stuck her fingers into her pocket discreetly to make sure Chrom's speech was still in there. "Though I'm supposed to recite a speech before getting to the point."

"What for?"

"Praising your finer points, apparently."

Olivia scoffed under her breath. "I'll let you get away with skipping the praise."

"That's too bad, because I spent a considerable amount of time memorising it. Chrom wrote it himself, and I think it's rather poetic," Robin frowned. She did not want to have her efforts go to waste.

Even from under the veil, Robin could see the lady rolling her eyes in open disdain. "That means it's more likely to be fake."

"No it's not," Robin insisted. "He was very earnest about it. And besides...I'm not going to let him make me do all the legwork, you know."

"But he's tried this before, don't you see? What's another messenger, then? What difference does it make, except for how exceptionally rude you were compared to the ones before you? And what difference will it make once you finally leave?" Olivia snapped.

"If I was rude, it was because of how poorly I was treated on arrival. Please...I come in peace. Once I explain myself, then you can finally rid yourself of me."

Robin was taken aback at Olivia's sudden display of anger. The khatun realised this as well, and brought a hand delicately to her face, suddenly feeling very sorry indeed. Basilio always said that it was unkind to take one's' anger out on the messenger; and yet here she was, as though she were an entitled, pompous lady and not one who had been taught better by her uncle and her parents.

"I...I'm sorry," Olivia apologised. "I...I would like to hear your piece, please."

"Thank you," Robin replied. She cleared her throat clumsily and wracked her brain for the appropriate words—it would have been incredibly uncouth to admit defeat and reach into her pocket for Chrom's paper. "'Most sweet lady—" She began.

Robin was interrupted by Olivia once more, in the form of a soft, barely discernible sigh.

"Pretty words!" Though her voice was low, the mocking tone was still heard. "He always tries to start off like that."

"His words are completely sincere, I assure you."

"He always sticks to those kind of openings. As though they were as immutable as the holy scriptures he reads for the masses he sometimes leads."

"Perhaps it's because those words are in the first chapter of his heart."

Olivia, shy as she was in fiddling with her dress and fidgeting in her seat, suddenly sat still as she regarded Robin attentively, her head cocked to the side. "If nothing else, I can see that he at least thought you speak well."

"May I see your face?"

The pink-haired woman was surprised by the request. "Whatever for?"

"Perhaps it's because he really isn't that different from other men and chose you for your beauty. It could explain why he's so determined to court you even though you're so openly contemptible of him. If nothing else, he's decided that your looks are worth it in spite of your disdain."

"How would you seeing my face be so important, if you're so convinced of what he thinks?"

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe his love for you is clouding his judgement, and all he needs is a second opinion to get him to change his mind."

The jab was quite blunt and deliberate, and, while Chrom's thoughts did not really bother Olivia, it still peeved her that this upstart was openly goading her. She did not consider herself vain, and yet—

It was _working_. Her looks had been subjected to the implication of ugliness before, as she was a woman who had been witness to the envy and carelessness of others. No, what hurt was the fact that this self assured young man had outright said that her looks were but a mere façade for an ugly personality.

And _that_ she could not abide.

So she very carefully took off her half-mourning veil, slowly peeling it from below to first reveal her lips, then her nose, then her eyes. Olivia folded the soft cloth and set it in her lap after having made sure that its removal did not muss her curls, and then she turned to face Robin squarely.

"Well?" She tried to hide the quaver in her voice, hoping that it came out strong. "Do I look like I'm 'worth it?'"

Olivia was in fact very beautiful. Robin was embarrassingly speechless as she took in the lady's long, pink hair, her heart shaped face, and the nervous flush that coloured her cheeks and the undersides of her eyes. Chrom had indeed fallen for quite the beauty.

"W-well?" Olivia pressed anxiously. Her words snapped Robin out of her light daze.

"I would say so," Robin admitted. "But now I've seen what you're like. You're proud. But you'd still be beautiful even if you were as proud as a devil."

"Did you come here to praise my looks, insult me, or both?"

"We both know what I'm here for."

Olivia heaved another sigh. She turned to look out the window pensively, as though admiring the well kept greenery of the garden and its flowerbeds, but in reality deep in contemplation.

"At my age I might as well be a spinster," she said. "The idea doesn't sound too terrible. Why even bother marrying? All anyone seems to care about are my looks and my relation to Basilio. 'Lady,' they moan, 'you'd be the cruelest woman alive if you were to die with no children left behind to inherit your beauty.' Oh, but I'm not a cruel person. I'd make an inventory of me," Olivia rolled her eyes at the very thought, "all labeled down to the last detail: a pair of lips, of an ordinary shade; two eyes, gray, with lids on them; a head attached to a neck attached to a body. That way, future generations can enjoy me for as long as they like."

"Look, even with my past words, I don't think Chrom would be so selfish as to care for you as though you were only a painting in some collection," Robin protested.

Olivia quirked her eyebrow skeptically. "Oh? Then how does he love me?"

"Well...he thinks of you often. He gets lost in thought over you. He sighs, and moans, and—"

Olivia heaved her longest, most drawn-out sigh yet, and reclined morosely in her chair, nervously fiddling with the thin necklace she wore.

"I'm not making much of an impact here, I take it."

"No, but you're more self aware than his previous messengers, at least. It's just...Chrom knows what I think. I...I'm sure that he's a very kind man. He's young, and noble, and very rich and handsome. And everyone keeps assuring me of his fine reputation, of how generous and educated and brave he is. Any girl would be lucky to have the attentions of a man like that. But...I can't force myself to love him. No matter how many people or gifts he sends...I-I just can't. And he should have realised that before you came along."

The only sounds were that of Olivia swallowing and the wind rushing through the branches of the willow. Robin pondered the situation, torn between her refusal to admit defeat and fail in her promise to Maribelle and Chrom, and the fact that the woman before her had spelled out, very clearly, her complete lack of enthusiasm towards the prospect of returning Chrom's affections. What to do? What to _say?_

Damn Maribelle and Chrom for putting her in this situation. Damn _herself_ for foolishly accepting their harebrained proposal in the first place.

Robin exhaled loudly through her nose. "If I'd love you as much as he does, hearing such a rejection would hurt."

"I'm sorry, but you have to understand that there's little he can do about it."

Robin smiled wryly. "A lot of men find no sense in denial. They think that the best strategy is to expend all their efforts on small approaches leading up to one final grand gesture—a cabin of willow," she motioned airily to the tree outside, "built outside their fair lady's doorstep, where they'd write songs of unrequited love and sing them all night long, hoping that _pity_ will stir the woman's heart for them." Robin let her head loll back onto the chair's top rail. "As if."

"You speak as though from experience. I find it hard to believe that a man, especially as one as young as you, could speak so... _eloquently_ on the subject." Olivia cocked her head to the side questioningly."

"Didn't you just say that you thought I spoke well?"

Olivia blinked owlishly, then covered her mouth to hide her tiny laugh and blush. "I did." Her smile broke some of the tension in the room and Robin reciprocated it. "I-I did hear that you're visiting royalty...I-I hope I'm not being too rude, but honestly, why are you doing this? Running matchmaking errands for Chrom seems so...below you."

"Chrom has been very kind to me and has shown himself to be a man I can trust. It may seem silly, to do things like this, but...I feel that this is the _least_ I could do for him."

There was a hidden depth to those words that piqued Olivia's interest.

Robin noticed the longer shadows stretched out across the floor and the furniture, noting that it was past breakfast already. Feeling hunger gnawing at her insides and acutely aware of just how long she had spent trying to fruitlessly win Olivia over, she stood and bowed her head deferentially. "I'm sorry to have wasted your time, milady. I think it's best if I take my leave for the time being."

"I'll see you out—wait, 'for the time being?'"

The Plegian shrugged sheepishly. "As much as I want to respect your wishes, Chrom doesn't seem like the type of man to give up on matters of romance. Whether we want to or not, you might see me back here again soon."

Olivia frowned. That single-minded boneheadedness sounded like Chrom alright…"And you can't just put your foot down and refuse him?"

"Like I said, I owe him a debt."

The servants were conspicuously absent as they crossed the foyer to the threshold, and Olivia graciously held the door open for her guest. "As much as I dislike these kind of audiences...I appreciate your honesty, milord…?"

"Daraen, milady. Likewise; as strange and awkward as this has been, it has been a pleasure to talk," Robin replied courteously. The wind ruffled her white hair and she turned her eyes skyward, noting just how late in the day it was. It would do well for her to ask the cook for a late breakfast. "The next time we do see each other, I hope it's under more pleasurable circumstances than this."

As Olivia watched the strange young man walk across the castle lawn, a most peculiar sensation settled at the bottom of her heart. She was so engrossed in watching him leave that she ignored Sully bursting out from behind the parlour door with a very annoyed Lon'qu and Excellus in tow.

"You seriously didn't buy that load of crap he spewed back there?" Sully demanded.

Olivia had no answer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this concludes the meeting between the two and the foundations for Olivia's infatuation. It was really fun to go through the book and No Fear Shakespeare for this. Next chapter will definitely be a return to the political aspect and Robin having to navigate through murky waters infested with sharks and assholes. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Holy moly! After working on this for about three months, I honestly can't believe I finally have it up! With all my upcoming uni work and such, I hope I can have enough time to update this at a certain pace along with Get the Guy. I'm so grateful for my two betas, and I'm especially thankful to varietyshow for having so much patience with me and all those revisions, comments, and conversations. I couldn't have done this without you variety, and I'm so grateful that you decided to give this a chance!
> 
> As a side note, this is totally meant to have comedic scenes (it is an adaptation of Twelfth Night, after all!), but I'm really surprised with how...dark it started out as! It might get better in future chapters...I hope.
> 
> Update: thanks again to varietyshow for pointing out a mistake! Just so we're all clear on this Daraen is the default name for Robin in the French, Spanish and Italian versions of the game (and it sounds way sexier than "Rufure" or "Reflet" in my opinion).
> 
> 2nd update: in case anyone gets confused about the areas the story is going to take place in, take a look at this map (http://serenesforest.net/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/world-map-full.jpg).  
> To get a better idea on how the first chapter panned out, the doomed crew took a ship from no. 20 and were supposed to arrive at 18 (here it's named Melilla). Instead Gregor decided to steer them over to the coast below 23, where they were blown off-course, until the ship crashed below the Prologue point.


End file.
